Sunday 12th November 1939
It was Sunday and promised to be a sunny, even warm day, despite being mid November. Holly and I had planned a picnic – once I returned from Matins. (Although devoid of its stained glass, the local church is still a peaceful place to be and I attend services whenever I can – which isn’t often.) So I was in a good mood as I made my way back to the Chateau.
It wasn’t to last. I found Holly and our two Padres (Peter and ‘Madre’ Barbara) waiting by a table in the entrance hall, on which were a letter and two boxes of specula.
“Our leave has been cancelled. Special orders.” Holly handed me the letter, which I read with puzzlement and growing apprehension.
“What on earth is a FFI inspection?”
“Free from Infection. And our orders are standard procedure, apparently – though I’d have thought it a bit outside our normal line of work. They’re expecting a big influx of our troops into the area soon and they want to make sure that the girls at the local brothel are – clean. Hence …” she indicated the boxes.
I was furious. “I’m a surgeon and you’re an anaesthetist – neither of us is a bloody family doctor! So why us?”
“We were the only two doctors off-duty … and perhaps the authorities thought that, being women, we’d be immune to the girls’ ‘exotic charms’.”
“And Peter and Barbara? It’s not as though they have nothing to do on a Sunday!”
“The Madam insisted. They are to be chaperones. Perhaps she also thinks the girls will be more likely to accept the situation if the church is seen to be supporting us. She is, of course, a staunch and loyal Catholic.” Holly looked as though she’d swallowed ipecac.
A staff car had been requisitioned to convey us to the brothel (the Madam didn’t want an army medical jeep parked outside). La Chat Noir was a large, once-handsome building, with a hanging sign depicting its name and a painting of a black cat, facing forward and winking. A servant led us to a room full of tables and chairs. There was a stage at one end on which several young women of various shapes and sizes were standing looking very bored. To our horror, they were all naked.
An older woman, heavily made up, rose from her seat at the side of the stage and came towards us. She was accompanied by two rough-looking men.
“You are the English doctors and priests? Welcome to the Black Cat. These are some of my girls. The others will follow. I have arranged it so that none of them is … otherwise occupied this morning.” Her tone suggested she noted our discomfiture – and had intended it.
“Then please could you also arrange it so that my colleague and I have two private rooms to examine your girls? And don’t they have robes to wear while they wait? This isn’t an exhibition!”
“As you wish.” The Madam’s tone was condescending. “There is no need for any of this, you know. My girls are clean. But it is always a pleasure to be patronised by the British Army.” She added a few quick words in French to her henchmen, who left – presumably to prepare the rooms.
Twenty minutes later, I found myself in a small room listening to the chest of a woman in her mid-twenties who was clearly enjoying this unexpected attention. Peter was sat at a table with his back to us, checking the list of names we had been given. Each girl had been given a glass container for a urine sample, and there was also a pot of sticks, an assortment of specula and boxes of antibiotics.
“Lie back now, please – I need to check …”
She lay back in an attitude so provocative that I felt sick. I was thankful that Peter couldn’t see her but also grateful for his presence. But at least she was cooperative and it was all over quickly. I sent her off to call in the next girl.
Of course, ma cherie, and I shall tell her how very gentle you were. Maybe later …?”
“Just go, please.”
The last girl on our list looked very young indeed and had an air of frozen watchfulness as she sat on the couch. She confirmed her name and told us she was fifteen. Unlike the others, who had seemed reasonably well-fed and healthy, she was thin-faced and drawn with a constant cough.
I examined her with growing concern.
“How long have you had that cough, Marie?”
“About two months, Miss.”
“And what medicine are you taking for it”
“Nothing, Miss – can’t afford medicine. The cook gives me some honey sometimes …”
Something was very wrong here – and not just that a fifteen year old was working in a brothel. Though if that was legal there was little I could say or do. But I still had some questions to ask.
“Marie, when was your last period?”
She looked puzzled – but I had translated literally from the English. I tried again.
“Quelle est la date de tes dernieres regles?”
The other girls had all told me straight away. Such things were known to all, I had been told. One did not have to stop work – there were other ways to amuse the men. But Marie just shook her head.
“I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t …”
I told her to put her robe back on and then called Peter, who came to sit next to us on the couch.
“So how old are you really, child?”
“Thirteen, Father.”
“And where are your parents?”
“My mother is dead this long time. My father beat me and …. So I ran away. Madam found me and took me in but she said I had to work for her. Some of the men are kind but … I’ve tried to run away from here too. They found me and brought me back.”
I had heard – and had – enough, and went to seek the Madam. It didn’t take long – she had been coming to see how much longer the clinics were likely to take. Her henchmen were with her.
“This girl, Marie, she’s just a child. She’s too young to be working here. Why wasn’t she sent to the Good Sisters along with the other displaced children?”
The Madam regarded me disdainfully. “She’s fifteen, plenty old enough. Too old for the orphanage. I wouldn’t believe any of the tales she’s told you. She’s much safer here than on the streets.”
“But she has pneumonia! She must rest”
“I can’t afford for any of my girls not to work. If she’s conscious and can spread her legs – then she works! And if not …”
One of the henchmen moved forward. While I doubted he would use the knife he carried, I didn’t want to risk it. Best to try another tack.
I went back to the room. Marie was still there with Peter and I did my best to assure her we would help her. She didn’t look convinced. Whom had she ever been able to trust?
Peter and I packed up our supplies in silence, trying to come to terms with what had happened.
Postscript
Holly and Barbara – and Graham when Holly told him – were just as horrified as us that a child of thirteen was being forced to work at the brothel. There must be something we can do, if only we could think of a plan. And we shall. I must.
Wednesday 15th November 1939
We have a plan, and please God may it work …
I was on duty all day Monday and yesterday, but this morning I returned to the brothel and asked to see the Madam. I was shown into her office where she was sitting behind her desk. On the wall behind her, bizarrely, hung a painting of a Madonna and Child. Her two toughs were also there.
“I am told you have a proposition to put to me?”
“I can see that you are a shrewd business woman, so I’ll be blunt. The girl Marie – how much is she to have exclusively for the night?”
“Ah yes, the little Marie about whose welfare you seemed so concerned on Sunday.” The Madam’s expression was not pleasant. “Well, she is popular. I should say twenty.”
“But not here. In a private apartment, away from the brothel. It must be clean – no fleas! – and warm with plenty of food and drink available. Here is one hundred francs. There will be more, providing I am … satisfied. But she is mine from now on. I will call on her tomorrow. And she must take these pills for her cough.
The Madam’s face lit up as she saw the money. “It is always a pleasure doing business with the ‘privileged’.”
I called on Marie the next afternoon as promised. The apartment in which she had been installed was rather dark and shabby but there was a small fire and she told me she had eaten a hot meal. One of the brothel’s elderly maids was with her – to ensure she didn’t run away, I suppose. I gave the woman a few coins and told her to go out for the next few hours. I wondered what she thought of me but it didn’t matter. My priority was the girl’s wellbeing.
Marie was wary of me at first. No doubt the Madam has taken great pleasure in explaining the new arrangement and what – presumably – would be expected of her. She asked me what she might do to ‘please’ me – I hate to think about the exploitation this forlorn child must have experienced. I had brought her some chocolate and a comic to read, at which she expressed almost pathetic delight. But I didn’t dare tell her what Peter and I were slowly putting in place for her escape. I only hope she isn’t dreading that I will soon tire of her and send her back to the brothel.
My first thought had been to send Marie to the Good Sisters to join the other displaced children. But she had spent nearly a year at the brothel and I wasn’t sure the nuns would cope with having a child prostitute added to their responsibilities. Perhaps I am doing them a disservice – but I want Marie to have a completely fresh start far away where she can experience a more normal life and come to terms with all that has happened. So we are hoping, somehow, to send her to England. I know people there who would help, including my old school friend Clemency Peters. Clemency is a Quaker and heavily involved in the refugee work the Society has been undertaking since long before the war had been officially declared.
As it happens, Peter knows – not Clemency herself but a friend of hers in academia. And the friend knows people, Quakers and others, who might be able to smuggle a young girl across the English Channel to a new life. I don’t know all the details and am not sure that I should. However, I have managed to contact Clemency (thank God for our more-or less-reliable telephones) and she and her friend are arranging matters.
Tuesday 21st November 1939
I was not on duty today, and announced that I would take Marie for a walk in the sunshine. The maid was, as ever, happy to be bribed and made no objection.
Marie and I made our way slowly to the river, through a maze of streets that I hoped would discourage anyone following us. Not that they were – why should they? What I did with the girl was my business as long as I paid for the privilege. But I was taking no chances.
It was only now that I explained to Marie what we had arranged for her. I did my best to sound confident but it was still a relief to find Peter waiting at our planned rendezvous in a ‘borrowed’ jeep. He also had Jack with him, in case of trouble. To my surprise, Matron Pym was sitting in the back seat. (She said later that Peter thought the child would need a woman with her, given her mistreatment at the hands of men. I thought of Marie’s mistreatment at the hands of the Madam, but Peter and Matron were still – as usual – right.)
We hid Marie under a blanket and the jeep and its occupants sped off. I knew where they were heading and would meet them later. I ran back towards the apartment where Marie had been staying to collect my motorcycle. I was almost there when I met the maid, bulging shopping bag in hand, on her way back from buying supplies. I asked whether she had seen Marie, who had run away from me. She just shrugged as though she wasn’t surprised, but I knew she would tell the Madam when Marie didn’t return that night. Would they suspect my involvement? But at least Marie would have got away.
I rode as fast as I could back to the Chateau – and then past it towards the forest where Peter was due to meet the Friends Ambulance Service. The two drivers (one a woman, I was relieved to see) appeared sturdy and reliable. They suggested dressing Marie in a cloth cap and greatcoat so that her appearance would not arouse suspicion on the journey. Matron had provided some sandwiches and a flask. I reassured her that she would be safe now. She started to cry again as she climbed into the truck.
Please God let her get to England safely.
Vanessa's War 