Read Online The Tiger Claw by Shauna Singh Baldwin - Free Book Online
Authors: Shauna Singh Baldwin
Tags: Historical
Ads: Link
You’re willing to be landed there? And you fully understand we would much rather have dropped you by parachute to avoid Hun attention?”
To be landed rather than dropped by parachute! Before the war Noor had flown in Kabir’s plane a few times in France, but she was not keen on jumping five hundred feet off anything,especially any moving thing. Now she didn’t have to keep her many resolutions to face and overcome those fears.
“If you are sure, we can pop you in there to join our agents a few weeks earlier. But you must be sure—if your heart isn’t in it, you’ll do a bad job of it.” Colonel Buckmaster was looking at her, then at her file, then back again as if expecting her to decline.
“Sir, I am ready to go when ordered.”
Find out what they expect; perform better than they expect
.
The Colonel closed Noor’s file, passed it over his shoulder to Miss Atkins. “Miss Atkins will help you prepare. Cover story, that sort of thing. We are confident you will conduct yourself well. We will rely on you as we rely on the good conduct of all our colonials.”
A glance at the documents from the Battersea Reception Centre in her file would have told the Colonel she was classified as a British Protected Person, not an Indian colonial; a refugee, like everyone else who had fled the Germans. Abbajaan was from the Princely State of Baroda, whose rulers had never been conquered in war by either the East India Company or the Raj. Baroda was a British ally, subjugated yet independent, and Noor could describe herself similarly. But Colonel Buckmaster wanted a pliable, eager woman, bilingual in French and English, with harnessable energy; he wasn’t interested in the rest of her life, talents or languages.
The Colonel said, “Major Boddington will provide you with funds sufficient for your personal expenses and for members of your network.”
The Major was gazing at Glory Hill, one hand tapping against his thigh as if he had more important things on his mind.
“Nick?”
“I’ll keep an eye on her, sir,” said Major Boddington. He turned and gave Noor a looking over. “I’ll be out to see you as necessary. And may I say, my dear, you seem quite the perfect candidate for this important mission.”
CHAPTER 4
Pforzheim, Germany
December
1943
A BBAJAAN USED TO SAY every debt must be paid before one can set out on the path of realization, that obligations to every person must first be met. I felt his words in the bone the years in England, and reproached myself every waking moment for being unequal to the obligations of love. And so my zikr, when I was supposed to be in remembrance of Allah, was a remembrance of Armand
.
How should I describe my beloved—your father? He is more than the sum of his actions, his likes and dislikes; attributes give little of his essence. Taller than most Frenchmen, he has long arms and legs, supple fingers. His eyes—a soul-piercing blue. Hair lighter than mine, wavy brown. But describing his face tells nothing of his spark, his irrepressible humour or generous spirit. He delights in reading and chess, and is impelled to translate beauty and pain alike to boundless music. He always sees a larger world than the one we live in, and when I am with him, we are almost there
.
Music chose Armand early, and he is gifted before the piano, whereas I am most comfortable behind the veena. Your father is that graduate of the Conservatoire de Paris whose every composition has an underlying swagger, whereas I passed my music examinations at the École Normale each year because not passing would have
disappointed my family. Like Stravinsky, like Abbajaan, Armand’s prelingual rhythms are Eastern. Notes in groups of five, seven, ten-eight time. And he’s a performer who brings life to each note. Once, he played a Brahms concerto and I felt he had reached through my ribs and taken my heart in his hands
.
Alone here in my cell I wonder why he never said I wasn’t worth the waiting, the
To be landed rather than dropped by parachute! Before the war Noor had flown in Kabir’s plane a few times in France, but she was not keen on jumping five hundred feet off anything,especially any moving thing. Now she didn’t have to keep her many resolutions to face and overcome those fears.
“If you are sure, we can pop you in there to join our agents a few weeks earlier. But you must be sure—if your heart isn’t in it, you’ll do a bad job of it.” Colonel Buckmaster was looking at her, then at her file, then back again as if expecting her to decline.
“Sir, I am ready to go when ordered.”
Find out what they expect; perform better than they expect
.
The Colonel closed Noor’s file, passed it over his shoulder to Miss Atkins. “Miss Atkins will help you prepare. Cover story, that sort of thing. We are confident you will conduct yourself well. We will rely on you as we rely on the good conduct of all our colonials.”
A glance at the documents from the Battersea Reception Centre in her file would have told the Colonel she was classified as a British Protected Person, not an Indian colonial; a refugee, like everyone else who had fled the Germans. Abbajaan was from the Princely State of Baroda, whose rulers had never been conquered in war by either the East India Company or the Raj. Baroda was a British ally, subjugated yet independent, and Noor could describe herself similarly. But Colonel Buckmaster wanted a pliable, eager woman, bilingual in French and English, with harnessable energy; he wasn’t interested in the rest of her life, talents or languages.
The Colonel said, “Major Boddington will provide you with funds sufficient for your personal expenses and for members of your network.”
The Major was gazing at Glory Hill, one hand tapping against his thigh as if he had more important things on his mind.
“Nick?”
“I’ll keep an eye on her, sir,” said Major Boddington. He turned and gave Noor a looking over. “I’ll be out to see you as necessary. And may I say, my dear, you seem quite the perfect candidate for this important mission.”
CHAPTER 4
Pforzheim, Germany
December
1943
A BBAJAAN USED TO SAY every debt must be paid before one can set out on the path of realization, that obligations to every person must first be met. I felt his words in the bone the years in England, and reproached myself every waking moment for being unequal to the obligations of love. And so my zikr, when I was supposed to be in remembrance of Allah, was a remembrance of Armand
.
How should I describe my beloved—your father? He is more than the sum of his actions, his likes and dislikes; attributes give little of his essence. Taller than most Frenchmen, he has long arms and legs, supple fingers. His eyes—a soul-piercing blue. Hair lighter than mine, wavy brown. But describing his face tells nothing of his spark, his irrepressible humour or generous spirit. He delights in reading and chess, and is impelled to translate beauty and pain alike to boundless music. He always sees a larger world than the one we live in, and when I am with him, we are almost there
.
Music chose Armand early, and he is gifted before the piano, whereas I am most comfortable behind the veena. Your father is that graduate of the Conservatoire de Paris whose every composition has an underlying swagger, whereas I passed my music examinations at the École Normale each year because not passing would have
disappointed my family. Like Stravinsky, like Abbajaan, Armand’s prelingual rhythms are Eastern. Notes in groups of five, seven, ten-eight time. And he’s a performer who brings life to each note. Once, he played a Brahms concerto and I felt he had reached through my ribs and taken my heart in his hands
.
Alone here in my cell I wonder why he never said I wasn’t worth the waiting, the
Similar Books
