As the deck was crowded with men, that was not easy to do, but he pushed his way through. James preferred to stay on deck. He had been seasick when crossing back in October, and besides, he wanted to see what was going on. He stared at the three remaining fighter-bombers coming closer and closer, and suddenly realized that the destroyer was certain to be hit. For all his several years in the army, he had never actually felt in personal danger before. Even the strafing they had suffered during the retreat had been somehow distant. But these planes had him in their sights. Around him men were making a lot of noise, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do. He heard a whistle blowing and the scream of a siren, and then there was an enormous whoosh!
He realized afterwards that he had lost consciousness for several seconds. Now he was in the sea, surrounded by men and by the remnants of the destroyer, which had settled in relatively shallow water; he reflected, irrelevantly, that she must have gone down very fast.
People were shouting at him, clawing at him, splashing all around him. He wondered if Harry was amongst them, and was amazed at the way his mind was working in such a detached fashion while he was swimming towards the town, slowly and painfully, already exhausted by the weight of his uniform and equipment. I should get rid of some of this stuff, he thought. But that would be deliberate destruction of army property. Well, then, at least the boots; they felt as if he had lumps of lead strapped to his feet. But how did he reach down to untie his laces without drowning? He could do without his cap. He put up his hand and discovered that the cap was gone. Instead, his hand came down covered in blood. Oh, shit, he thought. I’ve been hit.
His feet touched sand, and he managed to crawl a few feet before collapsing.
*
Noise! Nothing but noise. James opened his eyes and blinked at the light, and hastily closed them again. But the noise remained. It was inside his head. He forced his eyes open again, gazed at a nurse. A French nurse, he deduced, from her uniform. But she had a friendly smile. And she spoke English, after a fashion. ‘You must try to lie still,’ she said. ‘I ’ave the sedative ’ere.’
‘I don’t want a sedative. Where am I?’
‘You are in the ’ospital.’
‘Hospital where?’
‘‘Ere in Dunkirk.’
‘That noise...’
‘It is the Boche, monsieur. The planes and the guns.’
James sat up and blinked his eyes again as the room rotated. ‘My head...’
‘It is the bump.’
‘Eh?’
‘You ’ave a bump on the ’ead. I think it is when your ship goes down, eh? It is a big cut.’ James put up his hand and found a bandage. ‘So you see, you must rest. I ’ave the sedative...’
He caught her wrist. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘You came in yesterday morning.’
‘Yesterday?! What time is it?’
‘It is four of the afternoon.’
‘My God!’ He threw back the covers. ‘But we are still being bombed! They aren’t here yet.’
‘It will be soon.’
‘Have all the British soldiers left?’
‘There are still many on the beaches. I think they are waiting to be taken off, but I do not think it is possible.’
‘I must get to them.’ He got out of bed, clung to the post to wait for the room to settle down.
‘No, no.’ The nurse put her arm round his shoulders. ‘You are not well. You must lie down.’
‘Nurse, if you don’t let go of me I am going to be very angry.’ She retreated. ‘Now tell me, do you know what happened to a Captain Watson? Or a Colonel Barrett? They were on the ship with me.’
‘I do not know about this. I think maybe they were drowned. There were not many survivors. You were very lucky.’
I was on deck, he remembered. And out of the way of the direct hit. Harry had gone below, and Barrett had been on the bridge. Shit! ‘There was also a Private Colley.’
‘I do not know this. This ward is for officers.’
He looked left and right. None of the other three beds was occupied. ‘You are a friend of this private?’ the nurse asked, clearly finding that difficult to believe.
‘Yes, he was a friend. He was my batman. My servant.’
‘Ah.’ She looked more puzzled yet, that an officer should be friends with his servant.
‘Listen, where is my uniform?’
‘It is in the cupboard. But you cannot go out. You are not well.’
‘I’ll be a lot worse if I’m in here when the Jerries come.’ He opened the wardrobe. His uniform had been washed and pressed, and looked almost new. He dressed himself while she watched him, at last bestirring herself to tie the laces for his boots. He had no cap, but there was nothing he could do about that. ‘You’ve been a treasure.’ He kissed her on the forehead and went outside.
The outer ward was full, mostly of British soldiers — all seriously wounded — and nurses and doctors. One of these, a small man with glasses, stepped in front of James. ‘You cannot leave the hospital. You are wounded.’
James held him by the arms and gently lifted him to one side. ‘There are a lot of men here who need attention more than I.’
He hurried down a corridor. People stared at him, but no one attempted to stop him. He ran up a flight of steps — realizing for the first time that the wards had been underground — left the building, and checked in consternation. Inside the hospital sound had been muted, and the principal smell had been disinfectant. Out here he gazed at a destroyed and burning town, and the principal smell was that of scorching wood... and scorching flesh. He looked at the harbour, and gulped. There were several sunken vessels, half in and half out of the water; it was clearly no longer usable for embarkation. Then he looked at the beach north of the port, covered in men, and at the calm sea beyond, which was equally covered with ships of every size and description, from destroyers to launches and what looked like barges and even motor yachts closer in. To all of them there stretched lines of men, up to their chests in water, waiting patiently to be taken off.
For the moment there were no planes to be seen; James presumed they were away refuelling. He made his way through the burning streets and reached the open air, then climbed down to the beach. He passed several groups of soldiers, sitting or lying beside the road. ‘Why aren’t you on the beach?’ he asked.
‘There’s time,’ one replied, and added a belated, ‘Sir.’
James went on, and passed a French group, staring at the beach with sombre eyes. He saluted them, and was checked by a call. ‘James Barron!’
James turned. ‘Pierre? My dear fellow!’ He went towards him and they shook hands. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We have lost our tanks. So... But you are wounded.’
‘Just a bump on the head. Now let’s find ourselves a ship. Bring your men.’
‘But... we are French.’
‘We are allies,’ James reminded him.
Part Two
The Conquered
‘Honour was the meed of victorie And yet the vanquished had no despair.’
Edward Spenser
Four
Occupation
Liane de Gruchy soaked in her tub. This was the third bath she had had in twenty-four hours; there were rumours of an imminent water shortage, but it had not happened yet.
It was not as if she any longer felt dirty in a physical sense. Her captors had been about the cleanest people she had ever met, and she had been given a bath every day during her stay in the field hospital. But they had been her captors. Today was the first time she had been free, and in her own flat. Her own private world.
Yet she was still a prisoner. All of Paris was now a prisoner. Perhaps all of France. She got out of the bath, towelled, wrapped herself in her dressing gown, and stood at the window to look down at the street. Sometimes she wondered if it was real. She could see the Eiffel Tower rising above the rooftops, so it was definitely Paris. But she had never known it so
quiet. She reckoned about ninety per cent of the population must have been evacuated or just fled. The rest were staying indoors — today. It had been different yesterday, as the Wehrmacht had proudly marched under the Arche de Triomphe and down the Champs Elysees. Then it seemed that nearly all the remaining Parisians had turned out to have a first glimpse of their conquerors. Many had wept. Paris was now dead. For how long? she wondered.
She had almost been part of the march, following the army in an ambulance. There had been absolutely nothing the matter with her physical condition for over a fortnight, but she and Joanna had both been kept in hospital. Now, presumably, the Germans felt there was no one left for them to tell their story to, to seek justice from. They had forgotten that Joanna was an American.
Her doorbell rang. She crossed the lounge and unlocked it. ‘How did it go?’
Joanna headed straight for the sideboard and poured herself a cognac. ‘He couldn’t have been more helpful. Well, he had to be. Mom’s been on the phone every day for the past month. And Dad’s been raising hell with the Swedish embassy. So Bullitt’s arranging transport to Switzerland, then Italy, then Portugal, then England. Then home,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘Did you get through to your folks?’
‘The lines are down. I’m going to see if I can get down to Chartres when things settle a bit.’
‘Are you going to tell them what happened?’
‘When I feel up to it. When our business has been sorted out. What about our business? What did Bullitt say?’
Joanna sat on the settee, the glass held in both hands, in a word, forget it. That’s two words, I guess.’
Liane sat beside her. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘He said he’s very sorry about Aubrey, but he wasn’t sure anyone would believe me about what happened to us. I’m not sure he believed me himself. I had nothing to show him. Not even a bruise. Those bastards. Equally, I suspect he doesn’t want to rock the boat right this minute. So your people got licked. Bullitt told me this new guy who’s taken over, Petain, is asking for an armistice. That’s surrender. So the war will be over as far as France is concerned, and he seems to think that Britain will then negotiate. So it’ll all be done. And so far, apart from the strafing of civilians, it’s been what he calls a clean war. He thinks it’d be best for everyone if it stays that way. Two silly women screaming rape when they were where they shouldn’t have been in the first place might just stir things up, certainly when they can’t prove their allegations.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Get out of this goddamned country for a start. Sorry, Li, but as long as the Nazis are running it, that’s what it is.’
‘I agree with you. But when you get to England...’
‘That’s going to be a different ball game. Listen, you’ll come with me. I put it to Bullitt, and he said he’d swing it.’
‘France is my home.’
‘Sure. But right now it’s the shits. You just agreed.’
‘We’ll get it back. I want to be here when we do.’
‘Could be a long time.’
‘I have time,’ Liane said.
‘There are two men at the door,’ said Bertha the maid.
‘Do you think...’ Rosa Burstein looked at her husband. ‘It could be,’ David said. ‘It could be. Admit the gentlemen, Bertha.’
Amalie stood up, pounding heart turning her cheeks pink. Oh, if it could only be news... Even bad news would be better than not knowing.
The two men, both wearing trench coats and slouch hats, entered the drawing room. The Bursteins insensibly moved closer together. ‘David Burstein?’ one of the men asked. His French was good, but the accent was foreign.
‘I am he.’
‘You are under arrest. Frau Burstein, you are also under arrest.’
‘What do you mean?’ Amalie shouted.
The Gestapo officer looked at her. ‘Your name?’
‘I am also Frau Burstein, as you call it.’
He took a list from his pocket, studied it. ‘There is only one Frau Burstein here. Come along, now. There is a train waiting.’
‘A train?’ Rosa asked, her voice high. ‘I do not understand. We do not wish to go anywhere.’
‘What you wish is irrelevant. You are being deported to Germany.’
‘But why? What have we done?’
‘You are Jewish.’
The Bursteins stared at each other in horror. The agent was looking at Amalie. ‘You do not look Jewish,’ he remarked.
‘Of course I am not Jewish,’ Amalie snapped.
‘Then you are of no interest to us.’
‘I am a member of this family. I am married to Lieutenant Henri Burstein of the Motorized Cavalry.’
‘You have children?’
Amalie flushed. ‘No.’
‘Then we do not wish you. Come along now.’
‘Bastard!’ Amalie shouted, seizing a pewter vase and hurling it at him.
*
‘You mean you are here alone?’ Jean Moulin asked, looking from left to right as he stood in the centre of the huge drawing room. ‘But... did not your parents go down to Paulliac?’
‘Nearly two months ago,’ Madeleine said. ‘Champagne?’ Laurent was hovering. ‘Well... that would be very nice. Thank you.’
‘And you have news? Of Liane? Or Pierre?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Oh.’ The animation left her face.
‘I have news of Amalie. Very grave news.’
‘Amalie? She is in Dieppe.’
‘She is under arrest.’
‘Amalie?’ Madeleine shouted. ‘What are you saying?’
‘The Bursteins have been deported to Germany. All Jews are being deported to Germany.’
‘Oh, my God! But Amalie is not a Jew.’
‘And they had no interest in her. But when her parents-in-law were arrested, it seems she lost her temper and hit one of the Gestapo agents on the head. He is in hospital.’
‘Oh, Amalie! But I would have done the same. We must make them let her go.’
‘I’m afraid they are not going to do that.’
‘Not let her go?’
‘Madeleine, I would like you to sit down.’ Madeleine frowned, but did as he asked. Moulin sat beside her. ‘I wish you to be very brave,’ he said. ‘Madeleine, under the laws imposed by our conquerors, striking a German officer while he is performing his duty is a capital offence.’
Madeleine clasped both hands to her neck. ‘But... I must get in touch with Papa’s lawyers. Do you have a phone? Ours is down.’
‘A lawyer is not going to help. I thought of that immediately, but...’
‘She has to be tried, hasn’t she?’
Moulin sighed. ‘The trial, if you can call it that, will be before a military tribunal, and will be held in camera. No lawyers will be allowed. And sadly, none of the lawyers I have spoken to wish to become involved. Amalie married into a Jewish family, and anyone convicted of helping Jews is likely to find themselves in prison, if not in a German concentration camp.’
‘That is barbaric.’
‘I’m afraid we seem to have entered a barbaric age.’
‘There has to be something we can do.’
‘I will continue to make representations. But I can promise nothing. What you must do is leave Chartres immediately. Otherwise you may find yourself caught up in this miserable business. Go down to Paulliac.’
‘You mean, abandon Amalie.’
‘There is nothing you can do to help her. And... well, you must consider that of your parents’ four children, you could be the only one left.’
‘You are saying that Liane and Pierre are dead? You know this?’
‘I do not know this. But no word has been heard from either of them since the day of the invasion, and we know that the French army in Belgium was overrun and destroyed in the very first days of the war. I think you have a duty to your mother and father to be with them at this time. Now, it will be necessar
y for you to obtain a travel permit. This will be issued by the local commandant. His name is Major von Helsingen, and he appears to be a decent fellow. I suggest you visit him this afternoon. As soon as I get back to my office I will telephone and make an appointment for you. Please take my advice, Madeleine.’
Madeleine stared at him.
*
Poor girl, Moulin thought as he returned to his office. Poor family. Of course they were not the only family suffering tragedy, and at least with their wealth they were far better cushioned against adversity than most. But he felt their adversity more than any other. This was partly because he was a personal friend, and partly because they were so attractive, as a family. But more than any of those reasons, it was because their disintegration had been so rapid, and so complete. Two months ago they had gathered in that house without a care in the world. Now, Pierre was missing in action, as was Henri Burstein, who had to be considered part of the family. Liane had disappeared and could well be dead. Amalie was facing execution. Madeleine could indeed be the only one left.
He frowned as he got out of his car. Another car was parked just along the street. It flew the swastika from its bonnet, and there were at least two men inside, apart from the driver. He felt a quickening of his pulse as he entered the building. Up to now, apart from a formal visit by Major von Helsingen to inform him that Chartres was a military district, and requiring him to implement instructions as regards movement and rationing, the Germans had not interfered with his administration. His secretary waggled her eyebrows at him as he entered the outer office. He glanced to his right, where several people were seated, waiting to see him. Two of these were now rising to their feet: a tall, thin man with a hatchet face, and a shorter and more thickset, as well as younger, companion. Both wore civilian clothes. ‘Monsieur Moulin?’ asked the older man. ‘We wish to have a word, in private.’
‘Of course. As soon as I have seen those in front of you.’
‘Ahem,’ Marguerite said. Moulin looked at her. ‘Colonel Kluck is from the Gestapo, sir.’
Moulin looked at Kluck, then at the other waiting people, who avoided looking at him. Having discovered Kluck’s profession, they all seemed anxious to abandon their own interviews and get out of the office. ‘You had better come in,’ he invited.
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