A Phone Call
Here’s another mission of interest. I was sitting in my lovely little bedroom in my parents’ home in Carshalton Surrey, ten miles outside of London, reading some poems by Rupert Brooke. In university I did a lengthy paper on him and I loved his works with a passion. The telephone rang and broke the silence. I heard my mother’s voice answering, “Wallington 4545”, that was our number. “Babs” she called, “the call is for you”. I ran downstairs and sat on the old monk’s bench – yes the same one where I kept my Wellington boots, and I picked up the telephone. I was summoned to Whitehall.
I quickly changed into a Harris Tweed suit – blue heather tweed I think it was. I popped my rosary in my purse, gave my wonderful mother, who I adored, a bear hug and a sloppy kiss, and with a last remark, “I’m on night duty for a couple of nights,” I was out the door. At the gate, I stopped and ran back to hug my Labrador Retriever, Danny.
London
The walk to the railway station was about a mile and a very pleasant walk, although there were many times when it was not so pleasant. My sister Dorry and I had to shuffle through the shrapnel from the fighter planes overhead during the blackout. Not so pleasant then! This morning, however, it was clear and bright and the neighbors greeted me as I walked past. I stopped at W.H. Smith to get a copy of the Daily Telegraph newspaper – it was for the crossword puzzle rather than the news.
The train came in and I settled in the corner—always the same carriage, always the same seat, and had it been a couple of hours earlier, always the same people. During the air raids, having been up all night, we would all sleep on each other’s shoulders – never saying a world, but all feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies, and how grateful we were to be alive. But this day I was alone and not having too much success with the puzzle. Twenty-eight minutes later, the train drew into Platform 11 at Victoria Station and I alighted.
A brisk walk post the Royal Stables and then the Palace and up through St. James Park – beautiful St. James Park with the lake, the ducks and trees. Nothing ever changed there. I crossed the road to St. Charles Place and the War Rooms. The general public in those days didn’t know the location of the War Rooms. Our group – SOE (Special Operations Executive) had some rooms there too, and this is where I was headed. If you’ve been to London and visited the War Rooms as a tourist, you know they are fairly simple and not at all what you see on TV. There was also a big network of underground tunnels connecting all of the other ministries – the Air Ministry, the War Office, the Admiralty, etc., as well as offices, sleeping quarters – a complete underground world.
War Rooms
The girl at the front desk’s name was Gladys and she was always ready with a quick story about the Yank she was out with the last night, or the stunning British Naval Officer who led her astray. She was a bit of “flotsam and jetsam”, but I know how intelligent, loyal, and courageous she really was.
I sat myself down in one of the offices while I waited for Colonel Richardson to meet me. I watched the hustle and bustle of Air Force officers and Naval officers, mostly high ranking, go back and forth. Even Churchill sallied forth in his purple siren suit, smoking a cigar, and I detected a slight smell of brandy as he passed the door. Soon Colonel Richardson came in and after some chitchat, he told me that my assignment was Paris – that night. I gulped! The Germans occupied Paris. It was a one-man job – or in this case, a one-woman job. We normally travelled in pairs. He gave me all the instructions several times in great detail, and I repeated them back to him. It was all memorized. The Underground would give me my contact’s name in Paris when I got there – if I got there.
Undisclosed Location
Daphne, my driver, was waiting for me outside to drive me into the country to an 18th Century mansion that had become a briefing station for SOE and other secret agents. I changed into clothes there – French clothes, which were made for me with French labels – everything from bra to panties. The only thing of my own I was allowed to take was my rosary of Connemara marble blessed by the Pope in Rome. It was given to me on my first communion in the Catholic Church at age eight.
Tea was being served and there were quite a few people around. They were also going to various places on various missions, but we only talked about other subjects. Then it was time to leave and Daphne drove me to the airfield. The time, I was not going to be dropped by parachute, but would be going by Lysander.
I jumped in, said hello to Andrew, the twenty-one year old pilot, and we were off. We crossed the Channel at a height of about 3,000 feet, then the plane dropped to about 400 feet. At that height it was almost impossible for the German anti-aircraft guns to hit us. The Lysander’s speed was less than 200 miles an hour and being very small; it was able to land on a very short field. Soon, the landmarks were picked up by the aid of the moon, and as it neared the landing ground, an ultra-short wireless set in the plane, called an S phone, would get the directional signal. We would then see the three or four small pinpricks of light flashed by a member or members of the reception committee carefully spaced out to indicate the size of the field. The landing ground selected for tonight was about thirty miles outside Paris, hidden among the farmlands.
Making Contact
Suddenly, below us, we saw the dim signaling lights of the electric torches. With the engines switched off, the plane began to descend cautiously down and down, towards the moonlit countryside, and in a few minutes was bumping gently along the uneven field. We stopped, I jumped out and Andrew immediately took off: he was picking up another agent somewhere else. On my tummy, I squirmed my way across the field where I saw a pinprick of light. This was always a little dangerous, as some agents had been met by the Germans instead of the Maquis.
Well thank God it was Jacques. We had met before. He was about forty, rather old I thought. I was only twenty-two. He embraced me warmly and we walked about a half a mile through the woods to his old car, a Citroen, I think.
I got in and we drove to Paris. Jacques told me about the occupation and how things seemed fairly normal in Paris – no bombings, but the German uniforms were everywhere. It was very late by the time we got there, and he drove me up to the Sacre Coeur district and dropped me off at a nearby apartment. It was owned by the old aunt of a French agent I knew. The concierge let me in and directed me to a small lift that went to the second floor.
Henriette Gauthier met me and welcomed me with jambon sandwiches and glorious French coffee. We spoke of pre-war days and my education at the Loretto Convent in Liege, nothing relevant of the visit. She showed me to my room, high above he rooftops, and I thought what a strange visit to Paris this was – certainly not the way I wanted to visit.
I jumped into bed in my cotton underpants and bra – not like the movies – no gorgeous black satin and lace nightgown – no handsome man to sleep with – just me with slightly damp sheets around me. Then I remembered Henriette had given me an envelope. I opened it. It was the name and address of my contact in Paris. It was in code, and I deciphered it – SLYVIA BEACH – THE SHAKESPEARE BOOK SHOP. My hand shook. I graduated from the University of London with an English Literature degree and Sylvia Beach was high on my list of people I wanted to meet. What a strange circumstance – I would meet her as my contact on a secret mission in Paris.
Notre Dame Cathedral
I awakened after a fairly sleepless night to find Henriette standing by my bed with a steaming cup of coffee and hot rolls. I ate them, the rolls I mean, and drank the coffee, then proceeded to get dressed.
I left the apartment soon after and walked down the Sacre Coeur steps to Montmartre, then found a bus to take me to the area where I would find my contact. It was strange to see so many German uniforms, and I must admit I was uncomfortable. I decided to go into the Notre Dame Cathedral and say a few prayers. I put my hand in my pocket and found my one familiar possession, my rosary. I wondered about myself. Did I look French? My hair wasn’t piled up high, my complexion was fresh – no makeup, I wasn’t reeking of perfume. But I was Jeanine Mouret, wasn’t I? That was my identification.
I went into the Cathedral, knelt down and began my rosary: “Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee…”. I was half way through when I was aware of a figure entering the pew. He sat quite close to me, and he had on a German uniform. Am I now going to be arrested I thought – terrified, of course. “Hail Mary, please help me in my hour of need”.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a long, slender hand come out of his pocket. He was a Luftwaffe officer — a sigh of relief – one seldom got picked up by a Luftwaffe officer. In his hand was an ivory rosary and he began his prayers. I was compelled to look at him – he was blonde and handsome, and he turned and smiled. I smiled back. There we were, both praying to the same God and both of us, without a doubt, would have killed each other in a minute. What a strange world this was.
Shakespeare & Co.
I finished my rosary and began to leave. He smiled again, and I was concerned he would follow. I went out, walked around for a half-hour, went into a perfume shot and bought some Worth perfume all wrapped in a dainty bad, and made my way to the Shakespeare Book Shop. I tried not to appear nervous and shop-gazed a lot on the way. The shops still had gorgeous things in them.
I entered the Shakespeare Book Shop without hesitation. It was a musty looking old place and seemed deserted. I went on through the second door and there she stood – Sylvia Beach – the woman who made literary history in 1922 when she published James Joyce’s Ulysses under the imprint of her Paris book shop, Shakespeare & Co. And it was not only Joyce who visited her bookshop of the Left Bank, but also most of the writers who were to make the 1920’s legendary when they converged on Paris to live and work.
Sylvia Beach
There she stood – the woman I had admired from afar for many years. My first reaction was disappointment. She look to be a frumpy old woman – hair pulled back in a bun, spectacles on her nose, a worn old beige sweater, slightly soiled, with pockets sagging down, wool stockings and clumpy lace-up shoes. Not the Sylvia Beach I had imagined – not the glamorous lady who hob-nobbed with the elite. But then I looked into her eyes and saw the fire and light and knew that this was she who had challenged the literary world.
I introduced myself in French as Virginia – my code name. She beckoned me to follow her up in a little spiral staircase. At the top was a shabby couch with an old Indian blanket thrown across the back and a table nearby with two white enamel cups and a white enamel coffee pot and some kind of a burner to heat the coffee. The room was lined with books and photos, and a simple desk was beneath the window with an Oliver typewriter on it. I had learned to type on an Oliver, so I recognized it immediately. I quickly told her of my admiration for her and how I had always dreamed of meeting her and perhaps being a part of her group. She grasped my hand and patted my face and then we went on to the business at hand.
Mission Completed
She had information for me and on her information I had instructions and decisions for her to pass on to the Underground. She told me that things were getting more difficult, and that a few days before a German officer had come in and wanted to buy a copy of Finnegan’s Wake by Joyce. It was her only copy and she wouldn’t sell it to him and he threatened to have the bookshop closed down. However, she promised to pass the information on. Incidentally, as a result of our meeting, a German troop train was blown up by the Maquis.
I had spent almost an hour with her and it was time to leave. I picked up my little bag of perfume and went out into the street. I made my way, by walking and bus, back up to the Sacre Coeur Cathedral, went in, lit a candle of thanks, and back to the apartment. Henriette had found some English tea and had made some little cakes – petit fours.
Soon, Jacques came and we drove in the darkness back to a different blind airfield. Finally, the Lysander appeared and I climbed in and we made our way back to England. I spent the night near the coast and then, in the morning, went on into London to my “fake” office at the Ministry of Health where I held a position as a Junior Executive Officer. Mr. Ferguson looked at me leeringly and said, “Been out with a Yank all night?” Little did he know that I had been doing my bit for the war and I had realised one of my ambitions – I had met Sylvia Beach.
Post Script
I have been to Paris several times since World War II and couldn’t find Shakespeare & Co. Two years ago I was there and finally found it. Although it was in a different location, it was identical to the old one. It looked the same – the same string of small rooms. I ventured in the back and there was the spiral staircase. A small card hung by a black silk ribbon – the words inscribed on it said, “In memory of Sylvia Beach”. I went up the stairs. There was the couch, the blanket, the coffee pot, the mugs and the old Oliver typewriter. I waited for Sylvia to appear. She did not. I was trembling with emotion. Someone had recreated the whole place. I stoop for a moment remembering the hand patting my face and wondered if it was all a dream.
Then I descended and asked a young man if there were any memoirs of Sylvia Beach. He said, “No, but ask George”. I asked, “Who is George?” “George Woodbridge Beach,” he said, “the man over there with the white hair”. I approached him and told him I was a friend of Sylvia’s and asked if there were any memoirs I could buy. He was very short with me and said, “Only upstairs, not to be taken away”. We left soon after, and then George came rushing after us and said, “There will be a reading on Sunday at 3:00. Will you come?” Unfortunately, we were leaving that day. However, whoever George Woodbridge Beach is, he is carrying on the torch for Sylvia. I hope it always burns brightly.
