Here\u2019s another mission of interest. I was sitting in my lovely little bedroom in my parents\u2019 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\u2019s voice answering, \u201cWallington 4545\u201d, that was our number. \u201cBabs\u201d she called, \u201cthe call is for you\u201d. I ran downstairs and sat on the old monk\u2019s bench \u2013 yes the same one where I kept my Wellington boots, and I picked up the telephone. I was summoned to Whitehall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I quickly changed into a Harris Tweed suit \u2013 blue heather tweed I think it was.\u00a0\u00a0I 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, \u201cI\u2019m on night duty for a couple of nights,\u201d I was out the door.\u00a0\u00a0At the gate, I stopped and ran back to hug my Labrador Retriever, Danny.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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 <\/em>newspaper \u2013 it was for the crossword puzzle rather than the news.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The train came in and I settled in the corner\u2014always the same carriage, always the same seat, and had it been a couple of hours earlier, always the same people.\u00a0\u00a0During the air raids, having been up all night, we would all sleep on each other\u2019s shoulders \u2013 never saying a world, but all feeling the warmth of each other\u2019s bodies, and how grateful we were to be alive.\u00a0\u00a0But this day I was alone and not having too much success with the puzzle.\u00a0\u00a0Twenty-eight minutes later, the train drew into Platform 11 at Victoria Station and I alighted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A brisk walk post the Royal Stables and then the Palace and up through St. James Park \u2013 beautiful St. James Park with the lake, the ducks and trees.\u00a0\u00a0Nothing ever changed there.\u00a0\u00a0I crossed the road to St. Charles Place and the War Rooms.\u00a0\u00a0The general public in those days didn\u2019t know the location of the War Rooms.\u00a0\u00a0Our group \u2013 SOE (Special Operations Executive) had some rooms there too, and this is where I was headed.\u00a0\u00a0If you\u2019ve 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.\u00a0\u00a0There was also a big network of underground tunnels connecting all of the other ministries \u2013 the Air Ministry, the War Office, the Admiralty, etc., as well as offices, sleeping quarters \u2013 a complete underground world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The girl at the front desk\u2019s 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 \u201cflotsam and jetsam\u201d, but I know how intelligent, loyal, and courageous she really was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat myself down in one of the offices while I waited for Colonel Richardson to meet me.\u00a0\u00a0I watched the hustle and bustle of Air Force officers and Naval officers, mostly high ranking, go back and forth.\u00a0\u00a0Even Churchill sallied forth in his purple siren suit, smoking a cigar, and I detected a slight smell of brandy as he passed the door.\u00a0\u00a0Soon Colonel Richardson came in and after some chitchat, he told me that my assignment was Paris \u2013 that night.\u00a0\u00a0I gulped!\u00a0\u00a0The Germans occupied Paris.\u00a0\u00a0It was a one-man job \u2013 or in this case, a one-woman job.\u00a0\u00a0We normally travelled in pairs.\u00a0\u00a0He gave me all the instructions several times in great detail, and I repeated them back to him.\u00a0\u00a0It was all memorized.\u00a0\u00a0The Underground would give me my contact\u2019s name in Paris when I got there \u2013 if I got there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Daphne, my driver, was waiting for me outside to drive me into the country to an 18th<\/sup> Century mansion that had become a briefing station for SOE and other secret agents. I changed into clothes there \u2013 French clothes, which were made for me with French labels \u2013 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I jumped in, said hello to Andrew, the twenty-one year old pilot, and we were off.\u00a0\u00a0We crossed the Channel at a height of about 3,000 feet, then the plane dropped to about 400 feet.\u00a0\u00a0At that height it was almost impossible for the German anti-aircraft guns to hit us.\u00a0\u00a0The Lysander\u2019s speed was less than 200 miles an hour and being very small; it was able to land on a very short field.\u00a0\u00a0Soon, 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.\u00a0\u00a0We 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.\u00a0\u00a0The landing ground selected for tonight was about thirty miles outside Paris, hidden among the farmlands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suddenly, below us, we saw the dim signaling lights of the electric torches.\u00a0\u00a0With 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.\u00a0\u00a0We stopped, I jumped out and Andrew immediately took off:\u00a0\u00a0he was picking up another agent somewhere else.\u00a0\u00a0On my tummy, I squirmed my way across the field where I saw a pinprick of light.\u00a0\u00a0This was always a little dangerous, as some agents had been met by the Germans instead of the Maquis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I got in and we drove to Paris. Jacques told me about the occupation and how things seemed fairly normal in Paris \u2013 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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 \u2013 certainly not the way I wanted to visit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I jumped into bed in my cotton underpants and bra \u2013 not like the movies \u2013 no gorgeous black satin and lace nightgown \u2013 no handsome man to sleep with \u2013 just me with slightly damp sheets around me.\u00a0\u00a0Then I remembered Henriette had given me an envelope.\u00a0\u00a0I opened it.\u00a0\u00a0It was the name and address of my contact in Paris.\u00a0\u00a0It was in code, and I deciphered it \u2013 SLYVIA BEACH \u2013 THE SHAKESPEARE BOOK SHOP.\u00a0\u00a0My hand shook.\u00a0\u00a0I 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.\u00a0\u00a0What a strange circumstance \u2013 I would meet her as my contact on a secret mission in Paris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019t piled up high, my complexion was fresh \u2013 no makeup, I wasn\u2019t reeking of perfume. But I was Jeanine Mouret, wasn\u2019t I? That was my identification.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I went into the Cathedral, knelt down and began my rosary: \u201cHail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee\u2026\u201d. 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 \u2013 terrified, of course. \u201cHail Mary, please help me in my hour of need\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a long, slender hand come out of his pocket.\u00a0\u00a0He was a Luftwaffe officer — a sigh of relief \u2013 one seldom got picked up by a Luftwaffe officer.\u00a0\u00a0In his hand was an ivory rosary and he began his prayers.\u00a0\u00a0I was compelled to look at him \u2013 he was blonde and handsome, and he turned and smiled.\u00a0\u00a0I smiled back.\u00a0\u00a0There we were, both praying to the same God and both of us, without a doubt, would have killed each other in a minute.\u00a0\u00a0What a strange world this was.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I entered the Shakespeare Book Shop without hesitation.\u00a0\u00a0It was a musty looking old place and seemed deserted.\u00a0\u00a0I went on through the second door and there she stood \u2013 Sylvia Beach \u2013 the woman who made literary history in 1922 when she published James Joyce\u2019s\u00a0Ulysses\u00a0<\/em>under the imprint of her Paris book shop, Shakespeare & Co.\u00a0\u00a0And 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\u2019s legendary when they converged on Paris to live and work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There she stood \u2013 the woman I had admired from afar for many years. My first reaction was disappointment. She look to be a frumpy old woman \u2013 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 \u2013 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I introduced myself in French as Virginia \u2013 my code name.\u00a0\u00a0She beckoned me to follow her up in a little spiral staircase.\u00a0\u00a0At 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.\u00a0\u00a0The room was lined with books and photos, and a simple desk was beneath the window with an Oliver typewriter on it.\u00a0\u00a0I had learned to type on an Oliver, so I recognized it immediately.\u00a0\u00a0I 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.\u00a0\u00a0She grasped my hand and patted my face and then we went on to the business at hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019s Wake <\/em>by Joyce. It was her only copy and she wouldn\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n 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 \u2013 petit fours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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 \u201cfake\u201d office at the Ministry of Health where I held a position as a Junior Executive Officer. Mr. Ferguson looked at me leeringly and said, \u201cBeen out with a Yank all night?\u201d Little did he know that I had been doing my bit for the war and I had realised one of my ambitions \u2013 I had met Sylvia Beach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I have been to Paris several times since World War II and couldn\u2019t 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 \u2013 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 \u2013 the words inscribed on it said, \u201cIn memory of Sylvia Beach\u201d. 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I descended and asked a young man if there were any memoirs of Sylvia Beach. He said, \u201cNo, but ask George\u201d. I asked, \u201cWho is George?\u201d \u201cGeorge Woodbridge Beach,\u201d he said, \u201cthe man over there with the white hair\u201d. I approached him and told him I was a friend of Sylvia\u2019s and asked if there were any memoirs I could buy. He was very short with me and said, \u201cOnly upstairs, not to be taken away\u201d. We left soon after, and then George came rushing after us and said, \u201cThere will be a reading on Sunday at 3:00. Will you come?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"War Rooms<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Undisclosed Location<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Making Contact<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Notre Dame Cathedral<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Shakespeare & Co.<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Sylvia Beach<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Mission Completed<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Post Script<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n