The Tiger Claw (9 page)

In fact, Noor’s reprieve from the depths of their disapproval had come with the next question. Asked what she thought of Messali Hadj, the radical Muslim agitating for Algerian independence from France, she expressed admiration for any man who would spurn an offer of release from Vichy and remain in a French gaol—an attitude more in keeping with those of men who despised Pétain’s Vichy government. She was warmly congratulated and passed.

A question mark seemed to hover over Miss Atkins’s head.

“Everyone is capable of self-governance,” said Noor. “Even Indians.”

“Indians? Oh, don’t be silly, Nora. They’re not yet ready for freedom or democracy—haven’t a clue. Really, do try being a little more politic. It surprises me the board approved you. But I’ve long resigned myself to working with flawed material.” Her tone was turning ever more mocking. “Anyway, all your little outburst did was confirm Mr. Churchill’s convictions: the naked fakir and that Nehru chap should remain in jail. Now, if you’re going to take this assignment and survive, you must learn to lie, dear, lie convincingly about many things.”

Noor could lie as convincingly as any other agent—why ever not? By the time she left France, she was skilled in the administration of a multitude of selves, not only her nafs, the base self that must be overcome. She could lie to her self as well as anyone else; had she not hidden her self from herself these many years? Thinking up excuses to circumvent Uncle Tajuddin’s restrictions,
hiding, meeting Armand in secret because she didn’t want to disappoint or hurt her family. Once she imagined herself as she “should be,” the right responses flowed.

“About your true identity, for instance,” Miss Atkins added.

She was already lying about her true identity by calling herself Nora Baker instead of Noor Khan. She wasn’t the only Indian ever to take a Western name. Still, it was a cowardly accommodation to England—and a lie.

As for cover stories, she’d be a veritable Scheherazade. How many consoling fairy tales she had created for Kabir and Zaib to explain Abbajaan’s absence. Buddhist tales she translated had even been published as a book. She retold Sufi teaching tales, wrote her own short stories, managed the children’s hour on Radio Paris. She could unfetter her imagination at will.

Miss Atkins continued, “Diplomacy, war and interviews require a modicum of, shall we say, prevarication.” She paused to light a Players. “But I think you Indians have a native capacity for prevarication, so we shan’t have to worry about that.”

Noor felt herself flush. Fortunately, she was spared having to respond to these remarks by the arrival of a plate bordered in indigo blue. She had what Yolande termed “the curse,” so she would eat, though it was Ramzaan. Besides, training exercises gave her a hearty appetite. Dadijaan, whose network of expatriate Indians extended into every nook of London, said, when serving small, tasteless rations after sundown, that so many in India were starving to support this war, everyone in England should be grateful for any food at all. But if the shrivelled island coated with cream sauce on the plate before her was pork, it would, taken with Miss Atkins’s remarks, surely turn her stomach. Well, at least it wasn’t soup.

She tasted it—fish of some kind.

It wasn’t—it really wasn’t—that she didn’t like pork because it was taboo. Abbajaan hadn’t exactly forbidden it; he advised his followers to elevate themselves by refraining from eating the base animal. She had scientific reasons, like avoiding trichinosis—not that there was much danger of trichinosis in London.

Miss Atkins continued, “We will overlook such insubordination. Your services are required.”

The imperious “we” was not lost on Noor.

“And you’ve scored well in wireless operations.” Miss Atkins flashed a rare smile. “I don’t believe the board’s opinion counts much in such matters. I’m confident your mother’s blood will prevail. But it should be mentioned—some have their doubts.”

Miss Atkins’s caste system was blood-based enough to have been designed by Brahmins. A late-night story Yolande once told in a Nissen hut said Miss Atkins’s father wasn’t English either, he was Romanian; that, like Noor, Miss Atkins had taken her mother’s English name. But Noor wasn’t as determined as Miss Atkins to disavow the blood-echoes of Abbajaan’s origins.

Change the subject
.

“Do tell me more about the assignment, marm.”

Miss Atkins inhaled, then puffed smoke from the side of her mouth. Her gaze locked on Noor’s. “For some time now—since February, actually—an
SOE
agent we call “Prosper” has been operating throughout northern France, posing as a seller of agricultural implements. The usual sort of thing—arranging for arms deliveries to the Resistance, selecting locomotives to be sabotaged, trains to be derailed, aircraft or petrol tanks to be blown up. With excellent results, I might add: every time the Germans turn around, one of Prosper’s cells has blown up a bridge or disabled an engine turntable or signal box.”

Miss Atkins stubbed her cigarette out, but the ashes still smouldered. “He’s built up a highly skilled network by drawing Frenchmen from many trades and professions. We trust they’ll rise up and fight as soon as Mr. Churchill gives the word.” She sounded a bit dubious about trusting the French. “You will be working with a select few. An engineer, code name “Phono;” “Archambault,” a wireless operator assigned to Prosper’s network; “Gilbert,” who selects and secures the fields where agents and arms are dropped; a French businessman, a professor and a don—director, as the French say. You will be introduced—secure
introductions are absolutely indispensable—as Anne-Marie Régnier, a nursemaid from Bordeaux.”

Miss Atkins lit up again. Eye-stinging clouds accumulated about Noor’s head.

“I will provide you with the necessary
carte d’identité
, ration coupons, a textile card and a certificate of Aryan descent. Your personal effects, wireless and code book will be sent once we receive word that you have made contact with Phono. As soon as Archambault has you adequately trained, you will replace him and he will return for training on the Mark II. Conditions have forced Archambault to transmit too often, and at times for too long. We fear it is only a matter of time before the Gestapo locates his transmitters. They’re OSS-issue SSTR-1s. You will replace his transmitters with Mark IIs, and learn quickly.”

“When do I leave, marm?”

“At the next full moon—that’s tomorrow if the night is clear. Come to Orchard Court in Portman Square after tea, alone. Memorize this address. Tell no one where you are going. We will reach you if your flight is cancelled”—she consulted a card from her pocket—“on Taviton Street?”

“Yes, I’ll be with my mother.”

“‘No one’ includes family. They are not to know where you are being sent or when you leave. Your pay will be accumulated for your return or paid in the usual weekly dollops. Perhaps you’d like it paid to your mother?”

Noor dipped her head in a quick nod.

Money talk. Like dirty laundry. Sewage. Allah would provide. She didn’t mind bargaining when necessary like any frugal Indian or Parisienne, but …

“We need your services—we don’t expect you to starve.”

A gentle reminder of the four weeks Noor went without pay when she first joined the
SOE
. Went without pay for four whole weeks because she couldn’t bear to mention to Miss Atkins that His Majesty’s War Department had mistakenly failed to pay her salary.

“I appreciate that, marm.”

“Continue to use the code name we chose during training: Madeleine. In France, be most careful to avoid anyone who could recognize you from before the war or call you Nora.”

None of Noor’s friends in Paris would call her Nora. Miss Atkins had forgotten Noor Khan, though the name was on Noor’s records; Noor had played Nora Baker quite well.

“Letters to your family can be sent in care of the War Office at Whitehall. Urgent personal messages are to use our prearranged code; these will be read over the BBC for you to receive. For instance, Prosper’s team will be alerted to expect your arrival with the phrase
Jasmin is playing her flute
, and you will use the phrase
Jasmin has played her flute
to tip us off that you have arrived safely. You will identify yourself to Phono with the phrase
The sky is blue
. The correct response is:
But the bread will rise.”

“Très drôle,”
said Noor.

Gimlet eyes bored into Noor’s. “Yes, very funny. Only, Nora, this is no game. All of France is occupied by the Germans now.
SOE
agents and the Resistance are risking their lives every day. It’s quite possible you will be there when the invasion comes, if not on this assignment then on another. If captured, you know the rules: Deny all knowledge of other members of the network and the
SOE
. Hold out twenty-four hours before divulging any information so your contacts will know something is wrong and have time to destroy incriminating evidence and save themselves.” Miss Atkins barely paused; she must have given the same instructions to other agents many times.

Could Noor resist for twenty-four hours? Of course she could. And they’d never catch her to begin with. And it was torture to be safe in England. And now to have this rare chance to be nearer to Armand, somehow get a message to him …

Out loud Noor asked, “Do members of the Resistance completely support the return of General de Gaulle, as the BBC says?”

“Pish, de Gaulle! Vichy court-martialled him
in absentia
for desertion, yet the BBC calls him General. He’s not an elected head of state, after all.”

To be court-martialled by Vichy sounded like an accolade. That Miss Atkins, weather vane of official opinion, was so disparaging could mean that General Charles de Gaulle wasn’t as compliant as Mr. Churchill would like foreign leaders to be. His voice on the BBC, though—so inspiring. De Gaulle ran his own resistance networks too, the Free French.

“Miss Atkins, why have some French refugees joined the
SOE
and some the Free French?”

“Contacts, mostly. It’s not always a matter of choice. If you ask me, de Gaulle’s Free French are a ragtag lot, given far too much importance.”

“Ragtag because they’ve lost everything,” said Noor. “But they do inspire me, and each other. I mean people like Jean Moulin and others who refused to collaborate with the Germans.”

“Oh, be very careful to use Moulin’s
nom de guerre
—Max—in France. He’s larger than life to the French resistants, perhaps larger than de Gaulle or his General Delestraint—but we don’t mention that. He could become France’s next president, if Mr. Churchill and Mr. Roosevelt so decide.”

Miss Atkins pushed her chair back. Noor rose too.

“If you have a choice, the
SOE
is far more attractive. General de Gaulle doesn’t have state coffers at his disposal to fund his little projects in France, you know. Anyway, your allegiance is to England and the
SOE
, my dear. But we do co-operate with the Free French. When we have to.”

“Yes, marm.”

The waiter held the door. Miss Atkins strode purposefully through. Noor followed close behind. On Clarges Street, Miss Atkins snapped a black umbrella open against a slow drizzle growing to shower. Noor did the same. Miss Atkins’s umbrella bobbed away down the street. Soon she and Noor were far apart.

CHAPTER 6

Pforzheim, Germany
December
1943

MISS ATKINS NAMED US ALL
. Yolande was “Mariette” and I was Madeleine. But the nom de guerre I wanted was Madelon
.

Madelon from an evening in 1934, when I was twenty. Uncle Tajuddin’s lecture to the Sufi disciples closed with the Universal Worship ceremony, and I slipped away with Armand to the Val d’Or café. When we were sure no one who knew me was near, we walked uphill, summoned by an old man’s plaintive song, “Quand Madelon vient nous servir à boire.” A poilu from the Great War sang of the girl Madelon who inspired warriors like him
.

The poilu stood on his wooden leg at the foot of Mont Valérien, the cemetery where American soldiers lie. His accordion pleated and unpleated, breathing that melody into the summer evening. And before him on the ground he displayed his medals beside his cupped beret
.

Armand tossed a few sous in the beret and his arm encircled my waist. In our special place, we lay down on his coat and the tall chestnuts swayed above. We talked till we found ourselves still speaking but without words. When I close my eyes in this dark hole, I do not feel my chains but feel his lips again, lips on mine, feel his hair between my fingers, dark hair scented with grass. The
accordion music vibrates in me, a song from that war that was to end all war, from the poilu’s days at Verdun
.

We married, though no synagogue or mosque sanctified our nuptials. We married, though no one witnessed it but the stars over Paris. And for all that has happened as “the moving finger writes and having writ moves on,” I would not lure that finger back to cancel that one line
.