“God bless, Mrs. Winfield.”
The girls and their mum all rushed with the bottle of milk to the kitchen sink. They poured out the milk, which would be unusable, as it was not milk at all—just some white liquid. Then they fished out an oiled piece of paper hidden inside it. Posie held it under the tap and turned on the water. This was a twist on the invisible milk ink commonly used in cryptology. That was strictly elementary stuff for schoolkids, Alice thought.
She could not tear her eyes from the paper. This could be it. Her first A-level mission. The message was beginning to appear under the running water, in an acid-based ink known as blue tone. It had been invented by the newly formed SOE—Special Operations Executive. This combined the secret agencies concerned with espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance into one force. Within seconds, the message would dissolve without a trace.
“‘Silly times are here again.’” Posie read it in a whisper and looked up at her daughters.
“We’re in business again, girls!”
“Not me,” Louisa said softly. Was there regret in her sister’s voice? If there was, it was too late, as there was no turning back. Suddenly Alice felt a terrible sadness wash through her.
“It’s okay.” She reached out and squeezed her sister’s shoulder.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Louisa grinned. The dimple flashed, but her eyes seemed dead. Not a gleam of light. Not joy, not sorrow, not regret. Nothing.
“True. Not you, dear.” Posie reached out and touched her daughter’s new face.
“But I’ll do my bit, Mum.” Alice smiled. Louisa only gave a sort of half smile. An enigmatic smile at best. The smile of a stranger, Alice thought. Or perhaps a kind of ghost.
“I know you will, dearie.”
Alice watched as her mother tipped her head and studied Louisa’s face. Was her mum really sensing something different? It seemed to Alice that Posie Winfield was searching for her daughter, thinking that Louise had to be in there someplace. Yes, someplace in there was the child she had known and given birth to, loved and still loved. “I’m sure the job at Bletchley will come through for you, dear.”
March 1944
Berlin, Germany
Four
“Willkommen in Deutschland”
The shadow of a man in a trench coat and fedora hat stretched across the airfield on the Scilly Isle of Gugh, which dangled off the main isle of St. Agnes like the stubby tail of a dog. The hat cast an angled shadow over the man’s face. His thick glasses had misted in the fog, erasing any light emanating from his eyes. He was calm, yet radiated an inescapable intensity in the white murk of the night.
This was T. The director of the Company. He handed an envelope to Posie Winfield and another one to Alice. They had both changed into their flight suits. Then, in a somewhat raspy voice, he began to speak. “Level A.” Something ignited deep inside Alice. She glanced at her mother, whose mouth was now slightly open in anticipation. The hat was angled over the man’s face. His eyes were now just a blur behind the thick lenses. A fleeting trace of a smile could be detected.
“Yes, Frau Schnaubel!” Her mother’s cheek seemed to twitch as he uttered the name. “May I call you Lotte? And your daughter Ute.” Alice grasped her mother’s hand. It had been almost three years since her father, Alan Winfield, had gone to Germany. And a year since he had been promoted from his job as chauffeur for Reich Research Council and inserted as the top mechanic. He was now the Direktor des Fahrzeugbetriebs, director of motor vehicle operations, in the Bendlerstrasse garage of the war department. And they were to be reunited at last!
T began speaking softly. “Here are your passports and the other documents. Don’t open them until you reach two thousand feet. Read them and follow protocol.” Then another figure strode across the runway, where the aircraft stood waiting.
“Ah, your chariot awaits you. And its driver, RAF pilot Stefan Bacik.” He gestured to the approaching figure. “The fog should be clearing soon enough for takeoff.”
“Guten Abend, Frau Schnaubel and Fräulein Schnaubel. Yes, the fog is clearing, but it might chase us across the Channel.” He smiled at them. These were the greenest eyes Alice had ever seen. He held his helmet under one arm, and his blondish hair flopped over his forehead. Charming. It was the only word Alice could think of for the way it fell across his brow.
Although he had an almost unidentifiable accent, she knew from his surname that he was Polish. Part of the Royal Air Force, and a unit known as the Kosciuszko squadron, or the 303. The 303 was renowned. Fleeing Poland, these airmen had made their way to England through Rumania and France. Their contribution was indispensable in the Battle of Britain. They were considered superior to British pilots because they had learned to fly in primitive, outdated aircraft and were unaccustomed to the sophisticated equipment of the British planes. Therefore they could fly through any conditions—who needed radar?
There were no formal goodbyes or expressions of good luck. Alice and her mother followed the pilot quickly to the aircraft. The canopy was slid back. There was a short ladder attached to the port side, where one could enter both the front and rear cockpit. Stefan climbed in first, and then Alice and Posie squashed themselves into the rear cockpit.
“Lucky you’re both so fit.” Stefan laughed as they strapped on their helmets and parachutes. Then added, “You know the drill.”
“Ja, ja,” Posie answered. “Mir sind scho mol gsprunga.” We’ve jumped before.
Her Swabian accent was perfect. She sounded exactly like she had been born and raised in that region in the southwestern part of Germany, where the accent was quite distinct from that of Berlin. Alice had done perhaps twenty or more jumps when she was in Rasa camp, but this would be her first actual mission jump.
From the rear cockpit, Alice and Posie watched the altimeter on the instrument panel. It didn’t take long to get to two thousand feet. They both opened the packets that T had given them.
Inside were their German passports and their legends, with all vital information.
Alice looked at her passport picture. The Golden Mean, that ideal mathematical ratio between two quantities, she thought as she studied it. A face no one would ever remember, including Stefan. Alice sighed. He had seemed to have a smile just for her when he commented on how she and her mother were fit. But she knew that within minutes her face would soon become just a blur, tucked away in the back of his mind, irretrievable.
Alice, however, set her gaze on his helmeted head and retrieved every detail of his face. She recalled his eyes—so green. What exactly made his face so memorable? His nose was quite thin and sharp. Toward the tip it bent down ever so slightly. There was something lovely about his mouth. When he smiled, there was an unevenness to his lips that made the smile rather appealing.
Alice hadn’t done much kissing in her life, but she could imagine. Unfortunately, the last person who had kissed her, back when she was thirteen, thought she looked like Princess Margaret. She supposed she should have been complimented, as Princess Margaret was considered quite pretty . . . but she often looked stuck-up in her photos.
Stefan’s hair was actually a blondish red. And so was the stubble on his cheeks. It was obvious that he had not shaved for a day or two. But it was those green eyes that got her! In the rearview mirror they appeared to look back at her now. Crinkles emanated from the corners and sloped down to join lines that were too old for such a young face. They added an indefinable quality. What was it? Empathy? Einfühlung. Yes! That was the German word. So much better than the English one. He smiled now and gave her a wink. She felt herself blushing fiercely and began to read the documents in the envelope by the light of her pocket flashlight.