The pale limestone apartments of the Avenue Foch held their breath as British bombers passed over the Arc de Triomphe, their late nineteenth-century facades cracked and covered with Nazi swastikas. A full moon illuminated the Parisian sky like an incendiary bomb as a petite figure dressed completely in blue turned the corner and entered the street. In her left hand was a small black briefcase, whose weight she was struggling to manage with her thin arms, in the other hand was a silver lighter that she raised to the cigarette resting precariously between her lips: after several attempts the little white cylinder was lit and she inhaled its tobacco fuelled smoke as she passed No. 84 Avenue Foch, the Gestapo’s Parisian headquarters. She coughed violently and the sapphire beret on her head nearly toppled as she was bent double: so much for smoking calming your nerves.
Nadia, regaining her composure, disposed of the cigarette, straightened her back and shifted her beret to a more secure position on her dyed blonde hair; the Germans would probably be hiding like rats in their air raid shelters rather than watching her and you couldn’t be shot for breaking the curfew if there was no one around to arrest you, at any rate the hairpin inserted in the blonde bun at the nape of her neck was in fact a concealed knife, so she was prepared just in case. Taking a deep breath, she continued down the avenue, her legs rising up and down like pistons as her sea blue heels pounded rhythmically against the cobbled pavement; her tailored azure dress was buffeted slightly in the night breeze and she could hear the faint rustling of leaves to her left. The sickly sweet scent of chestnut trees mingled with the stench of damp and decaying leaves while Nadia stared at the miniature forest that formed the Avenue Foch Gardens; before the war started she had walked this route everyday to help herself relax, but now the Nazis had made even her fondest memories taste sour. With a new found vigour, she hurried to the first turning on her right and headed down the rue de la Faisanderie, if her memory was correct the safe house shouldn’t be far.
Iron gas lamplights stood like ancient sentinels along the rue de la Faisanderie, all were devoid of radiance so that the British couldn’t see where to drop their bombs; Nadia smiled vacantly, she remembered when each lamp was as full of life as a white dove flickering and fluttering to escape its glass and metal cage. Somewhere far off an explosion ripped through the night air, Nadia shuddered and gripped her black briefcase more tightly, it would be ironic if she was blown up by her own side. The safe house was up ahead on the left corner of the road, her apartment was a skull white brick structure on the first floor with a jet-black metal railing enclosing a small balcony, beneath it was a bakery decorated with a garishly crimson paint: the gold letters of the sign spelt out Pain Parfait (‘perfect bread’), despite the fact that both ‘P’s and the ‘F’ were missing. Nadia’s hips swayed hypnotically as she reached her final destination; finally, she could begin to relax.
Remembering her training, Nadia looked up at the balcony window of the apartment, in front of the blackout curtain was an upside down flowerpot; she blinked twice in disbelief at this seemingly mundane item, it was code for the safehouse was blown. With some force of effort, she maintained her facial features as a rigid mask of calm while she swivelled around on her heels to take in her surroundings with her dark brown eyes: half-concealed in a doorway recess opposite her stood two figures in trilby hats and black leather trenchcoats, they might as well have had a sign on them saying Gestapo. Nadia’s heart began thumping within her chest like the incessant drumbeat of a Lancaster bomber raid, she began walking slowly away from the safehouse, checking her leather-strapped watch as if she was late for a rendezvous. Instinctively, she began reciting her cover story within her head, she was Madeleine Fournier, perfume seller and amateur filmmaker; the black briefcase was a ‘cinematographic apparatus’ or at least that was what she would say if she was stopped. The ‘cinematographic apparatus’ could not be allowed to fall into Nazi hands at any cost. She could hear the repetitive click-click of jackboots on the cobbled street behind her, the Gestapo agents had begun following about two metres to her rear. Nadia briefly glanced back and saw that one of her pursuers had drawn a stubby pistol resembling a Luger. She ran as fast as her high heels would allow her, but the Gestapo had mechanically accelerated their pace and were relentlessly chasing her like two black Panzer tanks. There was only one option open to her.
Nadia sprinted, turning sharply to her left down the Avenue Victor Hugo. For just an instant she was out of sight of the Nazis hunting her, but instead of continuing down the road she leapt into a doorway cavity and flattened her body against its hollowed out walls. Her figure morphed into the shadows and she waited for her enemies to approach, her right hand had drawn the hairpin knife from the bun at the back of her neck, its blade was small and compact and unlikely to kill, yet if used correctly it could easily maim a German foolish enough to underestimate her resolve. A wave of fear swept through her as the Gestapo agents entered her line of sight: she held her breath.
The agent nearest Nadia was staring straight at her, perhaps he could see the glint of her knife in the moonlight; any second she was expecting the brief flash of a Luger and the unknown void beyond. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable. Footsteps sounded as the Nazis moved on: in the absence of lamplights due to the blackout, Nadia’s figure had been bathed completely in black, she was effectively invisible.
When the Gestapo had disappeared from sight, Nadia allowed herself to inhale again, she collapsed against the wall of the doorway and curled up in a ball within her urban cave; her body and brain were completely exhausted. Her secondary safe house was two miles away at the Boulevard Richard Wallace and it was already zero one hundred hours on her watch: it was going to be a long night. God, she needed another cigarette; forcing herself to her feet, Nadia sheathed her knife in her hair bun, picked up her briefcase and ignited another little white cylinder. Her sea blue heels dissolved into the Parisian night as the whirring of hundreds of British bomber engines echoed off the distant horizon.
***
The wrought-iron girders of the Eiffel Tower stood tall and omnipotent above the Parisian skyline like a man-made god. It watched closely as the tiny figure of Nadia sat down on the opposite side of the River Seine, outside a small café nestled within the Trocadéro Gardens. She seemed composed as she fanned herself nonchalantly under the stiflingly hot July sun, her hair was its natural deep brunette as she had methodically scrubbed the blonde dye out from the night before. To make doubly sure no Nazi would recognise her she was clothed in a scarlet dress, a crimson fedora and blood red heels; the only accessory was a blue dragonfly brooch pinned above her left breast that had once belonged to her father: she had to wear something blue as it was after all her favourite colour, the Gestapo couldn’t take that away from her.
Nadia picked up the pink coffee cup laid out on the table before her and took a sip of the black nectar, she scowled as the liquid touched her taste buds; it tasted more of roasted acorns than coffee, but then what did she expect when the whole world was at war. She was tempted to spit it out, yet that would only draw unnecessary attention to herself, at least if there was milk it would be tolerable: frustratingly, milk, like everything else was rationed as well, all she could do was stare at the creamy white columns of the Art Deco Palais de Chaillot that overshadowed the Café Pétain and fantasize.
A small amount of spray from the Trocadéro Garden fountains splashed her, the wind must have changed direction as she had believed that she was some distance away; the white plumes of water danced like beautiful brides on their honeymoon or were they the spectres of all her dead friends performing a waltz at some macabre ball? Nadia couldn’t tell.
The individuals responsible for the murders of the men and women she loved, her fellow British agents, sat all around on the outdoor tables of the café in their light grey uniforms chatting gaily with their wives or mistresses, enjoying the splendour of the western capital of the Nazi’s thousand-year empire. The Café Pétain’s small wooden structure—which resembled a Black Forest log cabin in style—had been specifically designed to cater for the new elite’s need to maintain a small slither of Germany within the heart of Paris and unsurprisingly every lunchtime it was packed with the Nazi High Command. Nadia didn’t like being so near to her enemy, but sometimes it was better to hide in plain sight rather than skulk in the shadows and at any rate her contact should arrive soon. The scheduled time was twelve, yet on her watch it was already ten past noon; she would give it another five minutes before making a withdrawal. Trying to distract herself from her nerves she took another sip of the acorn coffee; it didn’t work, she couldn’t help asking herself over and over again why wasn’t he here, what had gone wrong? It was standard procedure to make contact after a safe house was blown, she needed to know more information about what was happening for her daily radio transmission to London, she needed to know who had talked.
A tall, blonde female Wehrmacht wireless operator with her grey side cap slanted to the right, strutted past Nadia with her long giraffe-like legs, took one glance at Nadia’s petite figure and laughed. Suddenly, feeling self-conscious, Nadia took out her oval compact from her leather handbag and checked in the mirror to see what was wrong with her appearance. The woman that stared back from her reflection Nadia barely recognised, her face was emaciated from weeks of near-starvation and the bags under her eyes were evidence of how badly she had slept since she had been parachuted into France, yet none of this was what the blonde lady had scorned: it was her skin, she had a slightly darker hue than the average Frenchwoman, admittedly she could pass as Mediterranean or as having a North African or West Indian heritage which wasn’t uncommon in Paris, but it was better to look as Aryan as possible in Nazi Occupied Europe. She dabbed a small sponge into the Pan-Cake foundation stored within the compact and carefully lightened her skin, rubbing it in until it appeared natural, God she was tired of these endless disguises.
It seemed that she had put on her mask of make-up for no reason, it was fifteen past twelve, her contact hadn’t arrived so it was time to make a quick exit. She finished her coffee, laid a few francs on the table and pushed her chair back; her left hand clasped the black briefcase that lay beside her and she was about to disappear into the Trocadéro Gardens when a large figure clad in a light grey uniform blocked her path. Four Gestapo agents in their black leather trenchcoats emerged from the trees and shrubbery of the Gardens, covering her exits, there was going to be no escape this time. She stared at the German officer who had trapped her, he was built like a battleship, the muscles in his arms making him somewhat top-heavy, yet his fat face and gold-rimmed full-moon spectacles gave him a jovial aspect that Nadia couldn’t quite figure out. The officer in the grey uniform smiled with his lips, while his blue eyes remained glacial:
‘May I join you, Nadia Fahim? Please no games, we know everything about you.’
Nadia sat back down in her chair, paralysed by shock. The game was finally up, all of her pieces had been removed from the board and there was nothing she could do.
‘I’m terribly sorry Fräulein Fahim, but your contact Gérard is tot, how is it you British say it…dead? My English is somewhat rusty I’m afraid,’ the German officer said self-deprecatingly as he sat across the table from Nadia.
‘That’s a lie, your accent is perfect, Major.’
‘You are a very attentive young woman, Miss Fahim, I spent a year studying English at Oxford and I’ve been told I’m extremely gifted, but I forget myself, we haven’t had a proper introduction, my name is Klaus von Blücher, I serve in the SD, the intelligence branch of the SS. I apologise if my friends in the Gestapo have bothered you recently, they don’t quite understand subtlety in the same way that we do. I have to say I am honoured to finally meet you, the picture in your file doesn’t do you justice, for a non-Aryan you look exquisite,’ Major Klaus von Blücher stretched out his arm, his calloused index finger stroking the back of Nadia’s left hand as it rested on the coffee table.
Nadia instinctively recoiled from his touch and her whole body convulsed at the thought of him—she felt sick.
Klaus laughed as his blue eyes gazed at her blankly from behind his spectacles, ‘Now that we have been introduced, I would recommend that you give me your hairpin and your briefcase.’
Reluctantly, Nadia surrendered her hairpin knife and the briefcase, although Klaus had to snatch the latter from her grip.
The Major turned the latches of the briefcase and it opened with a snap. Inside was a wireless set, a maze of red wires and black switches that was Nadia’s only contact with the outside world; Klaus turned towards her, this time his face truly was jovial:
‘Your friends in London will be disappointed that you allowed such a precious piece of equipment to fall into my hands.’
Nadia said nothing. Her hazel eyes regarded him with contempt; she had clearly lost the game, but the Major seemed to need to gloat over his new conquest. Why didn’t he just shoot her and have done with it?
‘Oh, one more thing, I’d like to have your gun as well, if you don’t mind Nadia?’
She raised a bemused eyebrow, ‘I never carry a gun, but you already know that from my file don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. I just find it funny that a pacifist such as yourself, who believes in non-violence, would volunteer for one of the most dangerous roles in the war effort, so you are prepared to sacrifice your own life, yet your morality means you cannot kill?’
‘Will not, not cannot. I have been properly trained to wring your neck if you so desire,’ Nadia corrected him.
Klaus von Blücher’s eyes sparkled with mirth, ‘Tell me, what is a woman descended from Indian royalty doing fighting for the British Empire, the country that occupies your ancestral home?’
‘When your Stuka dive bombers started killing women and children fleeing from your army and a Nazi swastika was placed over my Parisian home, then you became my enemy. I may be Indian, I may be British, but Paris, I have always belonged to Paris and to France. The British Empire is an evil yes, but it is a lesser evil than you,’ Nadia said, spitting directly into his face.
Klaus calmly wiped the saliva from his cheek and grabbed her left wrist, holding her with his vice-like grip, ‘I admire your spirit, Miss Fahim, but we have ways of making you more docile. I understand you have a brother still in France, we could make you watch as we torture him, then his wife and finally his children.’
To suppress her tension, Nadia had been digging her nails into the palm of her right hand and now blood dripped from fresh cuts in her skin, ‘You wouldn’t dare, you bastard!’
Klaus waited some time before he released Nadia from his grip as he watched the fire in her eyes burn itself out, ‘We both know I would. Now let us please be civilised, some coffee perhaps? The real stuff, naturally.’
It seemed an eternity before the waiter brought Nadia and Klaus von Blücher their coffee. Nadia stirred a spoonful of sugar in before taking a sip from the black liquid: she felt a fire coursing through her veins, it was good to taste real coffee again, but she would have preferred the acorn substitute any day rather than take gifts from a Nazi. The Major hadn’t touched his drink, he kept on tapping his spoon against the rim of his cup, so much so that it was beginning to get on Nadia’s nerves; anything was better than this torture, subconsciously her fingers had begun to play with the top button of her red dress, underneath which was a concealed cyanide pill she had stitched in earlier: perhaps there was an escape route after all?
‘You’re not thinking of leaving us are you?’ Klaus said, seeming to read her thoughts, ‘It would be a shame for you to die before we’ve extracted the codes for your radio transmissions to London from you.’
‘I can’t kill anyone, not even myself, remember? You’ll never get the codes from me, if I can survive the torture of your conversation I can withstand anything.’
The Major stopped tapping with his spoon and the two frozen lakes that were his eyes gazed at her directly:
‘I wasn’t always a Nazi you know. Before the war, I taught history at the University of Munich, Ancient History of course.’
Nadia sighed. God, now she was going to get his life story.
Klaus continued: ‘There is only one lesson that history teaches us, the strong always conquer the weak. Look at Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar; Germany had to avenge the humiliation of the Treaty of Versailles and by doing so we have created a true Master Race, Hitler has not only saved our country, he has saved the world.’
Nadia couldn’t conceal her laughter, ‘You seriously think Hitler is strong? You’re clearly deluded Major.’
The left side of Klaus’ face twitched when he heard her, ‘Hitler may be a blunt instrument, an unsophisticated tool, but sometimes that is all that is necessary. You forget that if your ancestors had been stronger, you might be ruling India and not the British.’
Klaus at this point turned away from Nadia and looked around the Trocadéro Gardens filled with French civilians basking in the warmth of the July sun, his gaze then fixed on the spear point of the Eiffel Tower—the exact spot where it pierced the clear blue sky—and eventually returned to his prisoner.
‘Can’t you see the beauty of it? How peaceful and tranquil our new world order is?’
‘All I see is a city cowed by fear.’
‘Precisely, fear and order go hand in hand. Tolerance and democracy only lead to chaos and anarchy. Weimar German art for example,’ Klaus shuddered at the mere thought of it, ‘was the work of sub-humans.’
‘You really like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?’
The Major ignored Nadia’s sarcasm and took a few sips from his coffee, he frowned as the liquid passed his lips:
‘There is something wrong with my drink, maybe I should have put more sugar in it?’
‘I may have ever so slightly poured the contents of my cyanide pill into your coffee when your back was turned Major, I am truly sorry,’ Nadia glanced at her watch, ‘the poison should take effect around about now.’
Klaus von Blücher clutched at his throat, ‘What have you done? I thought you said you couldn’t kill?’
‘Yes, but you drank it Major, you drank it.’
The German officer’s head collapsed onto the table, for a few seconds his body convulsed before he lay still. Nadia retrieved her hairpin knife as well as her briefcase from his cold dead fingers. She fastened the latches of the black briefcase closed, and casually strode out of the café grounds, the customers of the Café Pétain still chattering away gaily, oblivious to the deceased Nazi in their midst.
Nadia approached a Gestapo agent who was barring her escape from the Trocadéro Gardens, she briefly saluted him as she went past; without orders from an officer he didn’t know what to do so just stared at her vacantly. She breathed a sigh of relief, so much for German efficiency. Nadia joined a crowd of Parisians and after blending in, disappeared from sight. The Eiffel Tower seemed to smile benevolently as the secret agent faded into the streets and alleyways of the French capital.
The End
Historical Note
This short story is heavily based on the exploits of Noor Inayat Khan (1914-1944), Indian princess, children’s writer and British World War Two spy. Although dismissed by some of the British agents who trained her as naive and dreamy and unfit to operate in enemy territory, she was the first female wireless operator dropped into France and soon became one of the Nazi’s most feared and successful adversaries. Fictional versions of Noor are included in the Doctor Who episode ‘Spyfall: Part Two’ and the film ‘A Call to Spy’. Her extraordinary real life adventures are told in the biography ‘Spy Princess: The Life of Noor Inayat Khan’, by Shrabani Basu. She was and still remains Britain’s first and only female Muslim war hero.