After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  Amélie reentered with a tray bearing warm soup, bread, and coffee. “You eat,” she said in English, setting it on a nightstand. She sat on the chair next to him again. “I watch.”

  “He speaks French,” Chantal chimed in.

  Overcome with emotion, Jeremy studied Amélie. Maintaining his composure, he said, “Your father and sister say you saved my life. How can I ever thank you?”

  Amélie waved away the comment. “I did nothing. My father saved you. I just talked to the Germans. I made them think we are weak.” Her face took on an impish expression. “We are not weak.”

  3

  “Was that you playing the piano when I woke up?” Jeremy asked the next day.

  Amélie smiled shyly and nodded.

  “My sister plays that piece,” Jeremy said. “It’s the ‘Revolutionary Étude’ by Frederick Chopin, if I recall correctly, and takes a great deal of skill and practice to do it as well as you do. How long have you been playing?”

  “Since I was a little girl. My mother taught me. She was a great pianist before she died.”

  Jeremy sensed an onrush of melancholy. “I’m sorry—”

  “That was four years ago.” Amélie dismissed the subject with a toss of her head. “You have a strange accent when you talk in French. Sometimes you sound British, sometimes American.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “That’s because I’m both. My father was born an American, but he became a British citizen, and my mother is British.”

  “Then do you have family in the United States?”

  “Many uncles, aunts, and cousins.”

  Two nights and almost two days had passed since he had entered the Boulier home. He had remained in Ferrand’s back bedroom while he recovered. With food and drink, he already felt strong and had become comfortable with the family, but uncomfortable in the threat he posed to them.

  “I can’t stay here,” he told Amélie. “It’s too dangerous.”

  She remained obstinate. “You’re not leaving yet. That’s more threatening.” She cast him a curious look. “Where do you live?”

  “You’re changing the subject. I must go.”

  “You don’t know where to go,” Amélie insisted. “The Nazis are putting checkpoints in place. When the time is right, we’ll help you.” She grinned in her impish fashion and asked again, “Where do you live?”

  Jeremy sighed. “If you must know, my home is on Sark Island. I was born there. It’s off the coast of Normandy near Guernsey. It’s one of the English Channel Islands.”

  “Ah, I know of them. We call them Îles de la Manche or Îles Anglo-Normandes. Do you speak Sercquiais?”

  “Those are the right islands, and yes, I speak Sercquiais. Even though it’s a French dialect, no one who didn’t grow up there understands it. Children are taught both French and English. We learn our patois on our own. Sark is a backward place.”

  Amélie wrinkled her forehead. “What do you mean, ‘backward?’ The education sounds like it must be good.”

  “The culture is dated. We don’t even allow cars.”

  Amélie nodded with a bemused expression. “Maybe it’s good that your island is backward.” She indicated their surroundings beyond the confines of the room. “Look what we have now in Dunkirk.”

  Jeremy first nodded, and then shook his head grimly. “You have a point.”

  “So, you fight because you’re British. Do you think the Americans will fight?”

  Feeling a downward pull in mood, Jeremy’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. This war has already gone on nearly nine months. Americans want to stay neutral.”

  “Then they will fight. Hitler won’t let them stay neutral. He’s already taken Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland—"

  Suddenly, the door burst open and Chantal rushed in with a look of horror. Tears ran down her face. “The Germans have entered Paris,” she cried. “I heard it just now on the street. The Nazis are celebrating.” She wrung her hands together in despair. “What will happen to us?”

  Amélie gasped. Then they heard the front door of the house open and close, and Ferrand hurried into the room.

  He spoke rapidly to Jeremy. “The Germans are searching all the houses in the neighborhood. I’ll hide you. Come with me. Now.” As he headed out the door, he told his daughters, “Stay in the house. Look normal.”

  Jeremy bolted after him while pulling on his dirty uniform. Then he stopped and turned to Amélie. “I will never forget you. After the war…” His voice trailed off.

  With tears brimming, Amélie nodded. “Oui.” Her voice caught and she wiped her eyes. “After the war. Go!”

  Amélie and Chantal sat in the front room staring out to sea. Occasionally, Chantal searched Amélie’s face for a clue to her thoughts, but Amélie remained impassive. Finally, unable to restrain herself, Chantal asked, “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

  Amélie shrugged. “I don’t know. Right now, we can think only about how we get through tonight. When the Germans come here, don’t be so inquisitive. Be quiet, answer their questions, volunteer nothing, and look scared.”

  “I am scared.”

  “Good. Stay that way.”

  “You don’t have to be so cross with me.”

  Amélie smiled gently. “I’m sorry. You’ve been wonderful.”

  Chantal remained quiet a moment, but curiosity overcame her judgment. “Do you love him?”

  “Don’t be silly. I just met him two days ago, and he was unconscious.”

  “But you cried when he left.”

  “Of course,” Amélie deflected. “Those Germans on the road could have killed us.”

  Chantal darted to the window. “Look, they’re coming. The soldiers are leaving the neighbor’s house and coming this way.”

  “And where’s father?” Amélie cried. She rushed to the kitchen, doused cold water on her eyes, and returned to the living room to sit and wait. Chantal sat across the room in a chair, her legs kicking, her eyes wide. She bit her fingernails.

  They heard the garden gate creak open, the stomp of boots on the sidewalk, and then an abrupt knock on the front door. Amélie went to open it.

  The officer who met her was dressed immaculately in his uniform. He exhibited flawless manners and a friendly attitude, whether sincere or not.

  “Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” he greeted in French with a perfect accent. “I am Hauptman Bergmann. But I see that you’ve been crying. Is anything the matter?”

  Bergmann personified Aryan good looks with a square jaw, blond hair, and blue eyes, and he carried himself with a confidence just shy of arrogance that repulsed Amélie. She sniffed and wiped an eye. “Of course I’m crying. I just heard that your army marched into Paris. Dunkirk is destroyed, and everything in our country is turned upside down. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to leave the house, or when.”

  “I understand. Please accept my assurance that we are here with the greatest of intentions.” Bergmann’s condescension grated on Amélie. He continued, “When this mess is finished, we’ll all be friends in one big country. Right now, we ask for patience while we settle in.” He turned to an orderly standing just behind him.

  Amélie recognized the soldier as the one who had jostled her when she had gone out in the rain. Involuntarily, she froze.

  “Who lives in this house, Kallsen?” Bergmann asked.

  “The Boulier family,” Kallsen replied, after checking a list on a clipboard. “Ferrand Boulier lives here with his daughters, Amélie and Chantal. His wife is deceased.”

  Bergmann turned back to Amélie. “My condolences regarding your mother. May I assume that you are Amélie Boulier?” She nodded. “Is your father home?”

  “My father went out right after we heard the news about Paris. I think he went to find out more detail.”

  Bergmann feigned hesitance. “May I come in? I want my soldiers to check out your house. Nothing invasive. We’ve had reports of British soldiers still loose and hiding, and we want to apprehend them b
efore they cause damage to local residents.”

  Mindful of the irony of a German officer concerning himself about destruction amid the ruins of Dunkirk, Amélie stepped out of the way and motioned for Bergmann to enter. He turned to Kallsen and indicated that he should join them.

  Two more soldiers followed. They immediately went to other parts of the house to carry out their search. Kallsen remained inside the front door, prepared to take notes.

  Looking around the living room, Bergmann said, “Very nice. I’m happy to see that the fighting did you no harm.”

  “We were fortunate. It stopped a few houses closer to town.”

  Noticing consternation on Chantal’s face, Bergmann crossed the room to rub her cheek.

  Chantal blanched. Her eyes widened further.

  “You have nothing to fear from me, young lady. We’re here to make you safe. How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.” Chantal trembled, but dared not move her face from the officer’s hand. Meanwhile, Bergmann had glanced around the room, his eyes resting on a set of photos atop a piano. He moved over and picked up a family portrait.

  “Such a lovely family.” He pointed at one of the girls in the picture. “Is that you?”

  Before Chantal could respond, she heard the back door open and close. Then, Ferrand appeared in the passageway leading from the kitchen. “I brought a fresh loaf of bread,” he called out, and then he saw Bergmann.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” the captain said, and crossed the room to introduce himself.

  Ferrand shook his hand perfunctorily. “I was not expecting guests,” he said, “or I would have brought more bread.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. My soldiers will be finished momentarily, and then we’ll be on our way. As I explained to your very charming daughters, we’ve had reports of stray British soldiers annoying local residents, so we are alerting everyone to help round them up. We just want you to let us know if you see them.”

  Bergmann’s men returned to the front room, having completed their search. They made eye contact with him and shook their heads.

  “Is there anything out back?” Bergmann asked.

  “Just a shed in the garden. You can have your men check it if you like.”

  A flick of Bergmann’s wrist sent the soldiers out the back door. They returned shortly and shook their heads.

  “Good, then,” Bergmann said. “We’ll be on our way. If you need anything, do not hesitate to contact me. I am at your service.” With a click of his heels and a sharp nod, he departed with his entourage.

  Jeremy breathed a sigh. The German soldiers who searched the shed had just closed the door, and he listened to their boots clomping up the concrete garden path and entering the house through the back door.

  He waited several minutes, and then pushed against the false wall that Ferrand had hurriedly built overnight in anticipation of such an occasion. The shed was barely long enough for a man to lie in, and only a few feet wide. Its steepled roof allowed standing to full height, and the low door was built into the wall nearest the garden path and faced the house.

  Ferrand had taken old pieces of wood stacked in the back of the shed and constructed the moveable false wall that looked more like a floor-to-ceiling tool rack. He had done it in the early morning hours, tapping the nails lightly and repeatedly with a cloth-covered hammer to minimize noise. The construction was not held together well, but when placed upright behind the door, it provided sufficient space for Jeremy to stand against the front wall and hold it in place. Ferrand had hung rakes, shovels, and other garden implements on it, and he had thrown a pile of rags in the opposite corner. With Jeremy concealed behind the wall, Ferrand had leaned a wheelbarrow against it.

  When the soldiers had swung the door open, one waited outside while the other probed the interior.

  Jeremy’s hiding place stood in the door’s shadow. He held his breath, wishing he could calm his thumping heart.

  Flashlight switched on, the soldier had crossed to the pile of rags and kicked them aside while keeping his rifle ready with his free hand. Finding nothing, he swept the light around the shed, searching the nooks and crannies. Then he moved to the door and swung his weapon toward the space behind it.

  Jeremy had pressed into the dark recess behind the false wall, but he had no more room. Between him and the muzzle of the rifle pointed at his chest were only the boards and garden tools. But the soldier took only a perfunctory look, switched off his light, exited the shed, and returned to the house.

  Several minutes later, Jeremy pushed the wall forward at an angle sufficient for him to slide through. Then he opened the garden door a crack to peer at the house.

  Images of Amélie flooded his mind—her standing stooped in the rain facing the German soldiers, the strands of music that stopped as he caught his first blurry glimpse of her following Chantal into the room and then sitting next to him and tending to him. Her impish smile and melodic laugh burned into his psyche so that he smiled slightly as he thought of her. And once again, he heard her play Chopin on the piano.

  He pictured her large, honey-colored eyes. He imagined her turned-up nose and full lips. She was petite, but under her loose clothing, he could not see her figure…

  I don’t care. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She risked her life for me. He thought she must be around twenty, roughly two years younger than he. Then he brought his thoughts under control. Her family risked for me.

  He thought of Chantal, a younger version of her sister, also bubbly, exuberant, and fearful; an adolescent facing challenges no one should have to endure. Yet, there she was with the Nazis in her living room. She must be terrified.

  Then Ferrand. The old veteran who had fought in and survived the trenches of the Great War had gone out into the storm to save a stranger. This father’s love and protection of his daughters manifested in his anger at the exposure to danger Amélie had initiated, yet he had put his own life on the line for the same purpose. He might be old and bent, but he’s noble and crafty, a true hero.

  Jeremy sat in the dark, his thoughts and emotions jumbled. Dulled by days of fighting and evading capture, his ability to analyze and choose a course of action seemed impaired. But one driving thought prevailed. I put them in danger. I can’t stay.

  With a lump in his throat, he opened the door only enough to slide through. Closing it softly behind him, he ducked and shuffled behind a hedge growing along the low garden fence. He sat there for a time, listening, and when he heard no sounds indicating anything amiss, he parted the branches so he could take one last look at the Boulier family home. Then, crouching, he stepped over the fence and made his way along the alley, staying close to its edge until he found another garden with an unlocked shed where he could wait for darkness.

  He looked down at his uniform. If I’m caught, I won’t be shot as a spy.

  As soon as Bergmann and his men had left, Amélie turned to Ferrand. “That soldier standing next to Bergmann, the one he called Kallsen. He was the one who reached for me on the road yesterday.”

  Anger flaring, Ferrand asked, “Did he recognize you?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t seem to. The rain was falling hard, the sky was dark, and I was in my raincoat with a hood.”

  “Let’s hope he didn’t. He could throw us under suspicion.”

  Amélie nodded. “Where did you hide Jeremy?” Uncharacteristic urgency tinged her tone.

  “In the shed,” Ferrand replied.

  Amélie started for the back door.

  “Listen to me,” Ferrand commanded. His tone arrested her. “You can’t go running out there. Everything we do must appear natural. Hurrying to the shed without being dressed for gardening right after Hauptman Bergmann was here could seem suspicious to neighbors who might see and report you.”

  Amélie faced him, fury in her eyes. “You don’t believe that anyone living around here would report us.” Her expression softened as she saw the added stoop of his shoulders and the st
rain on his face.

  “I don’t know,” Ferrand said. “Two years ago, the Austrians had their Anschluss and welcomed this madman Hitler into their country. Why would they do that?”

  “Austrians are German,” Amélie replied, “and Hitler came from there. He just joined two countries that should already have been together.”

  “That’s the popular view,” Ferrand replied. “Austria took a lot of land from their neighbors before the last war. There was a reason why the Allies wouldn’t let the two countries unite after the armistice.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Several months after the Anschluss, the Nazi Brown Shirts destroyed hundreds of Jewish synagogues across Germany. They ransacked over seven thousand of their businesses and huge numbers of homes, hospitals, and schools. The rioters left so much broken glass in the streets from looted stores that they call it Kristallnacht.”

  “I remember vaguely, but I was still a teenager.”

  Ferrand chuckled. “You are still very young, my daughter, but unfortunately”—he looked at Chantal sitting alone across the room, glued to their conversation— “your generation will have to mature fast.” He sighed. “A lot of people who attacked the Jews had been their friends. Many of our countrymen sympathize with Hitler’s aims.” His tired eyes studied Chantal’s face and then Amélie’s. “We don’t know who to trust. The danger is constant. We’ll survive by acting normal all the time.”

  “You mean give in?”

  The lines on Ferrand’s face creased in a barely perceptible smile. “If the last day hasn’t proven otherwise, I cannot convince you that I will never give in to les Boches.”

  A look of chagrin crossed Amélie’s face. With outstretched arms, she moved to her father and hugged him. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me to say.” She sniffed and pulled away while patting his chest. “I’ll put on some gardening clothes and go make sure Jeremy is all right. Don’t worry, I’ll putter around before coming back in.”

  Ferrand exhaled grimly. “You won’t find him there.”