Duchess

Chapter 16

That night, Benjamin and I let all the American soldiers crowd around the radio in the living room for the nightly German news.
It made my heart swell to hear them whispering jokes and using colloquialisms with each other that Ben and I hadn't heard in so long. As much as we enjoyed the challenge of intelligence here in occupied France, we desperately missed home.
     Although no one said it out loud, there was a silent understanding between us that we were Americans, and we knew more than we let on.
     Of course, for all of our sakes, we kept the French accent and pretended to be confused at certain things they would say. The men thought the whole act was hilarious, although they understood the reason for it.
They left the next evening in the same manner they came, but this time it was under the cover of darkness.
I had enjoyed the time spent with them more than anyone knew, and Benjamin and I were both comforted to be reminded of home for a few days.
Our espionage orders from the US government slowly shifted focus as springtime came and went, hinting that something was being planned.
Instead of asking us to relay messages to the Resistance and work personally with local intelligence agents we had recruited, we were told to hunker down and collect information from the agents only through dead drops and other impersonal, safer methods. 
Benjamin worked all day in his office, while I went out to the market to buy food, collect intelligence, and socialize with the French women I had come to grow close to.
In addition, I had taken up a position as a seamstress to supplement our income and help us make more contacts with high-up members of the Nazi party, who were constantly tearing up their uniforms.
It worked, and German officers were frequenting our house every day to have a cup of ration coffee and get their shoulder seams mended. The OSS couldn't get enough of what these men had to say.
The difficulty, however, was having Jews and Nazi officers in the same small apartment. Defferre had provided a steady stream of Jewish bankers, politicians, and poor families for us to hide until they could be smuggled out of France. In addition, we had housed French nobility that had spoken against the occupation, artists, poets, other spies and resistance members, those with both physical and mental disabilities, and groups of orphaned children.
     "I think," Benjamin whispered to me as we sat around the radio one evening, a group of seven Jews on the couch beside us listening intently to the propaganda news, "that we ought to ask the folks back in Washington what they're planning. Perhaps they'd tell us if we just asked. We could be more helpful if we knew."
"You're right. I'll set up the teletype tonight and you can ask."
     Once our guests had retired for bed, the two of us shared the seat in front of our clunky old teletype and watched the letters appear on the paper as someone in the OSS office typed out their response to our question.
"The White House is resurrecting Operation Dragoon. Stand by for further instructions."
My jaw dropped. They were going to invade Marseille.
"Judas," Benjamin said in a tone barely above a whisper, "That is more serious than I had imagined."
Operation Dragoon was supposed to be an invasion in conjunction with the invasion of Normandy last year, but it had been struck down.
Now, it seemed as though the single port in and out of France at Normandy was not enough, so they had set their sights back to Marseille.

 Neither of us knew what that meant for our future here, but it was quite striking news. The casualties would be innumerable.
We went to bed that night unable to stop worrying about what an invasion would mean. If they had been cleared to go through with the Operation, the Nazi port city would be an American battlefield in less than two months.
The next morning, Benjamin woke up early to treat a young girl whose mother had telephoned in the middle of the night to schedule an appointment. I rolled over groggily as he pulled a dark green sweater over his white button up.
"Go back to sleep," he said with a small smile, "I'll just be downstairs."
I grinned. "I have important business to attend to today," I said as I began removing the curlers in my hair, "and it starts with making sure you don't leave this room without a kiss."
Ben pulled me close and kissed me first on the lips, and then on the edge of my knuckles with a dramatic bow.
    "I'll see you later, my dear."
     "I will bring down your breakfast later."

     Later that day, Marie and Cecilia, two of the young Jewish women we were hiding, sat beside me under a sprawling pile of clothes to help me do the mending and alterations that needed to be done.
     Isaak, Helena, and their son Heinz came in shortly to join us, and soon Alfred and Sally—the last of our 'visitors'—were sitting around the radio to sort through, mend, and write receipts for all of my clients' laundry.
     "If only Madame Bernard knew that a Jewish man was fixing the tear in her stockings," Alfred joked, reading the name tag on the nylon stockings he was holding.
     "And what about this name," Cecilia added with a grin, "Ernst Müller? Sounds quite German to me. Do you know him, Mrs. Gilbert?"
     I pursed my lips and nodded. "He's an officer from Berlin, I believe. Quite a nice fellow, if it weren't for the uniform."
     "Aren't they all?" Heinz exclaimed.
     Everyone laughed.
     Just then, Benjamin burst through the door and pulled me to my feet, panic in his eyes.
     "They're raiding Old Port Marseille, darling. We have to get out."
     I furrowed my eyebrows, unable to comprehend the fact that he was serious. "What? They won't raid our street; probably just the poorer sections."
    "No, Louisa. They're three doors down; you have to leave while you have the chance."
Heinz stood up and looked us in the eye. "We've put you in danger. We will turn ourselves in while you two escape. They won't look for you if they have us. I'm so sorry that we-"
Benjamin put up his hand and began gathering up the breakfast dishes at the kitchen table. "This wasn't your fault. They've been calling Old Port Marseille a 'nest of terrorists' for months, and apparently Heinrich Himmler has had enough. Come on; we've got to get you all out of here."
As everyone scattered to clear the house from all evidence, I pulled Benjamin into the hallway.
"They're checking identification documents. You know you can't stay if they do that; the name and photograph of Benjamin Tallmadge is plastered over every bulletin board the Nazis own—"
"As if the Duchess of the Allies is completely unknown to them as well," Benjamin countered sarcastically, obviously unwilling to budge on the issue.
But we both knew I was right, and it had been the plan we'd decided on since the first day of our training. Louisa Tallmadge looked far more different from Anne-Laure Gilbert's photograph than Benjamin did from his alias' identification.
Besides, his punishment if caught would be death because of his rank; mine would be imprisonment—I hoped.
"Come on, darling," I said with tears in my eyes as I grabbed the emergency bag from under our bed and pressed it to his chest, "You have a better chance of getting them all to safety and coming back unscathed. It is just a documents check, I am certain of it."
"I can't leave you," Benjamin whispered, wiping away my tears with his thumb, "to be subject to this search alone."
"I can take it."
The seven anxious Jews filed hurriedly into he hiding place, and Benjamin followed just as a firm knock on the door echoed through the house.
"Stay in here unless I signal with the bell," I whispered, "and in that case you can go out the back escape door and get them to Spain, or at least to someone else who can help them."
"Just answer their questions," Benjamin said in a trembling voice, "and don't worry about us. I love you, my darling."
I kissed him hurriedly but passionately, and wiped away the tears from my eyes as I covered the hiding place door with the bed frame and hurried to open the door.