Seven Days in May
Chapter 11
They emerged into a bright, airy room. This was not a dungeon. This was a suite of lodgings, well-furnished with a simple bed, a small table, and a washbasin. A window looked out over the fortress walls, gray and imposing.
"You are free to move about," the jailer said, his tone flat. "But you are not to leave the fortress. The Magistrate himself will be your parole officer."
He left. Gertie looked around the room. It was small, but it was hers. She had time. She had a mirror. She had hot water.
She spent the first two days grooming herself. She dressed in the clothes she had been given: a plain, brown dress that was simple and serviceable.
She spent the remaining days observing. She listened to the guards as they passed in the corridor. She watched the officers as they came and went through a big double door. She studied the layout of the fortress. She followed the routine. She learned that the fortress was a self-contained world, a stone city within a stone city. She learned that the fortifications were a masterpiece of Vauban design, a geometry of massive walls and bastions that was impenetrable. She heard it said that the fortress had never been taken.
On the fifth day, a woman entered her room. She was older, her face lined with the hard work of a life in service. She brought a bag of food and a small bundle of clothes.
"I am Maria," she said, her voice soft. "I have been told to take care of you. You are a guest here."
"You know why I am here?" Gertie asked. She had been careful not to ask until now.
Maria looked at her, her eyes unreadable. "The Magistrate said you are with the Germans. He said you are a spy."
Gertie felt a spike of anger. "I am not a spy. I am a diplomat."
Maria nodded slowly. "I have prepared a uniform for you. It is a practical outfit for the field. You will need it for the journey."
She handed Gertie the bundle. Inside was a simple, khaki shirt and trousers, sturdy but comfortable. There was also a pair of hiking shoes, well-made.
"You will need to cut your hair," Maria said. "It is too long for the desert. It will catch the sand."
Gertie looked at her reflection in the mirror, and decided: short, cropped hair suited her. It was practical. It was efficient. It was the look of a woman who had shed her femininity for a mission.
"I am ready," Gertie said, her voice steady.
Maria nodded. "I will do it now."
She took a pair of shears and began to cut. Gertie watched her own reflection, the woman in the mirror becoming someone new. She felt a strange sense of detachment, as if she were watching the transformation from a distance.
The cut was brief. The hair fell away in clumps, leaving her with a short, military-style crop. She felt lighter, freer. She felt ready.
On the sixth day, she was summoned to the White Room.
The door opened, and she was ushered in by the same guard who had brought her to the jail. The room was stark and functional, but it was also imposing. It was the office of the Fortress Commander, the same man who had served as the Superior Magistrate at her trial.
He sat behind a massive oak desk, his face impassive, his look sharp. He stood and walked to a large, round table, in the center of the room. It was covered in maps of Portugal, of Spain, of France. In the center, a map of North Africa dominated the pile.
She waited for the Commander to speak.
He looked up from the maps. He saw her. He saw the khaki uniform, the cropped hair, the determined expression on her face. He nodded slowly.
"You look well, garota," he said. "You have made good use of your time in jail."
"I have," she said. "I am ready to continue."
The Commander reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. He opened it, and removed the Iron Cross.
Gertie felt a sharp intake of breath. She had thought it lost forever.
"This belonged to your father," the Commander said. "It is now yours again."
He placed the cross on the table, upon the map of North Africa.
"This is not a sentimental bauble," he said, his voice low. "It is a legend. It tells the story of courage in the face of fire, of one who held a line against impossible odds, who was awarded it for defying the enemy and saving his men. It is a story of honor, of sacrifice, and of the truth. It is the story of your father.
He gave Gertie the little cross, and said, "You want to know what honor looks like? It looks like this, our own Star of the Fort of the Count of Lippe," gesturing to a bronze bust of the Count on a pedestal, from which hung the star on a sash. "This medal was awarded to every soldier who defended this fortress during the 1801 War of the Oranges. It is, as you see, a star-shaped medallion, patterned after the plan of the fort, blue enamel on gold and silver, a jewel that shines like a star."
He pointed to the map of North Africa. "This is your destination. But you will not go by sea. You will not go by way of Casablanca, with its speakeasies, and its endless talk of love and betrayal. You will go to Algiers."
He traced a finger along the coast, past the Strait of Gibraltar, past Morocco, to the city of Algiers. "Algiers is a cosmopolitan settlement, a city of spice, of culture, and of danger. It is the perfect place for you to direct your attack.
“So,” the commander continued, "you have two choices; the safe route by boat from Lisbon to Casablanca, and then overland to Algiers. It will take you two weeks. It will be long, but it is the safest route."
“Or, as I recommend, the more direct, but dangerous route. There is a regular mail flight from Lisbon to Algiers, flown by a neutral airline. It will take you a day, but it will be risky.
Gertie looked at the map. She clutched the Iron Cross in her fist. She looked at the Commander. She thought of her father's legacy.
"I will take that chance," she said. "I will take the flight to Algiers."
The Commander nodded. "Then you must be ready to leave tomorrow morning at dawn.