Pied Piper

by Nevil Shute

She said: ‘Marie, the servant, lent me this dress.’

  She wore a very plain, black dress to her ankles, without adornment of any kind. Upon her feet she wore low-heeled, clumsy shoes and coarse black stockings.

  Madame Rougeron came in and put down her basket on the table in the salon. ‘There is a train for Rennes at noon,’ she said unemotionally. ‘There is a German soldier at the guichet who asks why you must travel, but they do not look at papers. They are very courteous and correct.’ She paused. ‘But there is another thing.’

  She took from the pocket of her gown a folded handbill. ‘A German soldier left this paper with the concierge this morning. There was one for each apartment.’

  They spread it out upon the table. It was in French, and it read:

  CITIZENS OF THE REPUBLIC!

  The treacherous English, who have forced this unnecessary war upon us, have been driven into disorderly flight from our country. Now is the time to rise and root out these plutocratic warmongers wherever they may be hiding, before they have time to plot fresh trouble for France.

  These scoundrels who are roaming the country and living in secret in our homes like disgusting parasites, will commit acts of sabotage and espionage and make trouble for all of us with the Germans, who are only anxious to build up a peaceful regime in our country. If these cowardly fugitives should commit such acts, the Germans will keep our fathers, our husbands, and our sons in long captivity. Help to bring back your men by driving out these pests!

  It is your duty if you know of an Englishman in hiding to tell the gendarmerie, or tell the nearest German soldier. This is a simple thing that anyone can do, which will bring peace and freedom to our beloved land.

  Severe penalties await those who shield these rats.

  VIVE LA FRANCE!

  Howard read it through quietly twice. Then he said: ‘It seems that I am one of the rats, madame. After this, I think it would be better that I should go alone, with the children.’

  She said that it was not to be thought of. And then she said, Nicole would never agree.

  The girl said: ‘That is very true. It would be impossible for you to go alone, as things are now. I do not think you would get very far before the Germans found that you were not a Frenchman, even in those clothes.’ She flipped the paper with disgust. ‘This is a German thing,’ she said. ‘You must not think that French people talk like this, Monsieur Howard.’

  ‘It is very nearly the truth,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘It is an enormous lie,’ she said.

  She went out of the room. The old man, grasping the opportunity, turned to her mother. ‘Your daughter has changed greatly since we were at Cidoton, madame,’ he said.

  The woman looked at him. ‘She has suffered a great deal, monsieur.’

  He said: ‘I am most sorry to hear that. If you could tell me something about it—perhaps I could avoid hurting her in conversation.’

  She stared at him. ‘You do not know, then?’

  ‘How should I know anything about her trouble, madame?’ he said gently. ‘It is something that has happened since we met at Cidoton.’

  She hesitated for a minute. Then she said: ‘She was in love with a young man. We did not arrange the affair and she tells me nothing.’

  ‘All young people are like that,’ he said, quietly. ‘My son was the same. The young man is a prisoner in German hands, perhaps?’

  Madame said: ‘No, monsieur. He is dead.’

  Nicole came bursting into the room, a little fibre case in her hand. ‘This we will carry in your perambulator,’ she said. ‘Now, monsieur, I am ready to go.’

  There was no time for any more conversation with Madame Rougeron, but Howard felt he had the gist of it; indeed, it was just what he had expected. It was hard on the girl, terribly hard; perhaps this journey, dangerous though it might be, would not be altogether a bad thing for her. It might distract her mind, serve as an anodyne.

  There was a great bustle of getting under way. They all went downstairs; Madame Rougeron had many bundles of food, which they put in the perambulator. The children clustered round them and impeded them.

  Ronnie said: ‘Will we be going where there are tanks, Mr. Howard?’ He spoke in English. ‘You said that I might go with the Germans for a ride.’

  Howard said, in French: ‘Not to-day. Try and talk French while Mademoiselle Rougeron is with us, Ronnie; it is not very nice to say what other people cannot understand.’

  Rose said: ‘That is very true, m’sieur. Often I have told Ronnie that it was not polite to speak in English.’

  Madame Rougeron said to her daughter in a low tone: ‘It is clever that.’ The girl nodded.

  Pierre said suddenly: ‘I do not speak English, m’sieur.’

  ‘No, Pierre,’ the old man said. ‘You are always polite.’

  Sheila said: ‘Is Willem polite, too?’ She spoke in French.

  Nicole said: ‘All of you are polite, all trés bien élevés. Now we are quite ready.’ She turned and kissed her mother.

  ‘Do not fret,’ she said gently. ‘Five days—perhaps a week, and I will be home again. Be happy for me, maman.’

  The old woman stood trembling, suddenly aged. ‘Prenez bien garde,’ she said tremulously. ‘These Germans—they are wicked, cruel people.’

  The girl said gently: ‘Be tranquil. I shall come to no harm.’ She turned to Howard. ‘En route, donc, Monsieur Howard,’ she said. ‘It is time for us to go.’

  They left the apartment and started down the street, Howard pushing the loaded pram and Nicole shepherding the children. She had produced a rather shabby black Homburg hat for the old man, and this, with his grey suit and brown canvas shoes, made him look very French. They went slowly for the sake of the children; the girl strolled beside him with a shawl over her shoulders.

  Presently she said: ‘Give me the pram, monsieur. That is more fitting for a woman to push, in the class that we represent.’

  He surrendered it to her; they must play up to their disguise. ‘When we come to the station,’ she said, ‘say nothing at all. I will do all the talking. Do you think you could behave as a much older man? As one who could hardly talk at all?’

  He said: ‘I would do my best. You want me to behave as a very old man indeed.’

  She nodded. ‘We have come from Arras,’ she said. ‘You are my uncle, you understand? Our house in Arras was destroyed by the British. You have a brother, my other uncle, who lives in Landerneau.’

  ‘Landerneau,’ he said. ‘Where is that, mademoiselle?’

  She said: ‘It is a little country town twenty kilometres this side of Brest, monsieur. If we can get there we can then walk to the coast. And it is inland, forty kilometres from the sea. I think they may allow us to go there, when it would be impossible for us to travel directly to the coast.’

  They approached the station. ‘Stay with the children,’ she said quietly. ‘If anyone asks you anything, be very stupid.’

  The approach to the station was crowded with German transport lorries; German officers and soldiers thronged around. It was clear that a considerable detachment of troops had just arrived by train; apart from them the station was crowded with refugees. Nicole pushed the pram through into the booking-hall, followed by Howard and the children. The old man, mindful of his part, walked with a shambling tread; his mouth hung open a little, and his head shook rhythmically.

  Nicole shot a glance at him. ‘It is good, that,’ she said. ‘Be careful you do not forget your rôle.’

  She left the pram with him and pressed forward to the booking-office. A German Feldwebel, smart and efficient in his grey-green uniform, stopped her and asked a question. Howard, peering through the throng with sagging head and half-closed eyes, saw her launch out into a long, rambling peasant explanation.

  She motioned towards him and the children. The Feldwebel glanced over them, shabby and inoffensive, their only luggage in an ancient pram. Then he cut short the torrent of her talk and motioned her to the booking-off
ice. Another woman claimed his attention.

  Nicole came back to Howard and the children with the tickets: ‘Only as far as Rennes,’ she said, in coarse peasant tones. ‘That is as far as this train goes.’

  The old man said: ‘Eh?’ and wagged his sagging head.

  She shouted in his ear. ‘Only to Rennes.’

  He mumbled thickly: ‘We do not want to go to Rennes.’

  She made a gesture of irritation and pushed him ahead of her to the barrier. A German soldier stood by the ticket-puncher; the old man checked and turned back to the girl in senile bewilderment. She said something cross and pushed him through.

  Then she apologised to the ticket-puncher. ‘He is my uncle,’ she said. ‘He is a good old man, but he is more trouble to me than all these children.’

  The man said: ‘Rennes. On the right,’ and passed them through. The German stared at them indifferently; one set of refugees was very like another. So they passed through on to the platform and climbed into a very old compartment with hard wooden seats.

  Ronnie said: ‘Is this the train we’re going to sleep in, M’sieur Howard?’ He spoke in French, however.

  Howard said: ‘Not to-night. We shan’t be in this train for very long.’

  But he was wrong.

  From Chartres to Rennes is about two hundred and sixty kilometres; it took them six hours. In the hot summer afternoon the train stopped at every station, and many times between. The body of the train was full of German soldiers travelling to the west; three coaches at the end were reserved for French civilians and they travelled in one of these. Sometimes the compartment was shared with other travellers for a few stations, but no one travelled with them continuously.

  It was an anxious journey, full of fears and subterfuges. When there were other people with them in the carriage the old man lapsed into senility, and Nicole would explain their story once again, how they were travelling to Landerneau from their house in Arras, which had been destroyed by the British. At first there was difficulty with the children, who were by no means inclined to lend support to what they rightly knew to be a pack of lies. Each time the story was retold Nicole and Howard rode on a knife edge of suspense, their attention split between the listener and the necessity of preventing the children from breaking into the conversation. Presently the children lost interest, and became absorbed in running up and down the corridor, playing ‘My great-aunt lives in Tours,’ with all its animal repetitions, and looking out of the window. In any event, the peasants and small shopkeepers who travelled with them were too anxious to start talking and to tell the story of their own troubles to have room for much suspicion in their minds.

  At the long last, when the fierce heat of the day was dying down, they pulled into Rennes. There the train stopped and everyone got out; the German soldiers fell in in two ranks in orderly array upon the platform and were marched away, leaving a fatigue party to load their kits on to a lorry. There was a German officer by the ticket-collector. Howard put on his most senile air, and Nicole went straight up to the collector to consult him about trains to Landerneau.

  Through half-closed eyes Howard watched her, the children clustered round him, dirty and fretful from their journey. He waited in an agony of apprehension; at any moment the officer might ask for papers. Then it would all be over. But finally he gave her a little pasteboard slip, shrugged his shoulders and dismissed her.

  She came back to Howard. ‘Mother of God!’ she said crossly and rather loudly. ‘Where is now the pram? Do I have to do everything?’

  The pram was still in the baggage-car. The old man shambled towards it, but she pushed him aside and got into the car and pulled it down on to the ground herself. Then, in a little confused huddle, she shepherded them to the barrier.

  ‘It is not five children that I have,’ she said bitterly to the ticket-collector. ‘It is six.’ The man laughed, and the German officer smiled faintly. So they passed out into the town of Rennes.

  She said quietly to him as they walked along: ‘You are not angry, Monsieur Howard? It is better that I should pretend that I am cross. It is more natural so.’

  He said: ‘My dear, you have done wonderfully well.’

  She said: ‘Well, we have got half-way without suspicion. To-morrow, at eight in the morning, a train leaves for Brest. We can go on that as far as Landerneau.’

  She told him that the German officer had given them permission to go there. She produced the ticket he had given to her. ‘We must sleep to-night in the refugee hostel,’ she said. ‘This ticket admits us. It will be better to go there, m’sieur, like all the others.’

  He agreed. ‘Where is it?’ he enquired.

  ‘In the Cinema du Monde,’ she said. ‘I have never slept in a cinema before.’

  He said: ‘Mademoiselle, I am deeply sorry that my difficulties should make you do so now.’

  She smiled: ‘Ne vous en faites pas,’ she said. ‘Perhaps as it is under German management it will be clean. We French are not so good at things like that.’

  They gave up their cards at the entrance, pushed their pram inside and looked around. The seats had all been removed, and around the walls were palliasses stacked, filled with old straw. There were not many people in the place; with the growing restrictions upon movements as the Germans took over control, the tide of refugees was less than it had been. An old Frenchwoman issued them with a palliasse and a blanket each and showed them a corner where they could make a little camp apart from the others. ‘The little ones will sleep quiet there,’ she said.

  There was an issue of free soup at a table at the end of the hall, dispensed by a German cook, who showed a fixed, beaming smile of professional good humour.

  An hour later the children were laid down to rest. Howard did not dare to leave them, and sat with his back against the wall, tired to death, but not yet ready for sleep. Nicole went out and came back presently with a packet of caporal cigarettes. ‘I bought these for you,’ she said. ‘I did not dare to get your Players; it would not be safe, that.’

  He was not a great smoker, but touched by her kindness he took one gratefully. She poured him out a little brandy in a mug and fetched a little water from the drinking fountain for him; the drink refreshed him and the cigarette was a comfort. She came and sat beside him, leaning up against the wall.

  For a time they talked in low tones of their journey, about her plans for the next day. Then, fearing to be overheard, he changed the subject and asked about her father.

  She had little more to tell him than he already knew. Her father had been commandant of a fort in the Maginot Line not very far from Metz; they had heard nothing of him since May.

  The old man said: ‘I am very, very sorry, mademoiselle.’ He paused, and then he said, ‘I know what that sort of anxiety means … very well. It blackens everything for a long time afterwards.’

  She said quietly: ‘Yes. Day after day you wait, and wait. And then the letter comes, or it may be the telegram, and you are afraid to open it to see what it says.’ She was silent for a minute. ‘And then at last you do open it.’

  He nodded. He felt very close to her; they had shared the same experience. He had waited and waited just like that when John had been missing. For three days he had waited; then the telegram had come. It became clear to him that she had been through the same trouble; indeed, her mother had told him that she had. He was immensely sorry for her.

  Quite suddenly, he felt that he would like to talk to her about John. He had not been able to talk about his son to anybody, not since it happened. He had feared sympathy, and had shunned intrusion. But this girl Nicole had known John. They had been ski-ing companions—friends, she had said.

  He blew out a long cloud of smoke. ‘I lost my son, you know,’ he said with difficulty, staring straight ahead of him. ‘He was killed flying—-he was a squadron leader, in our Royal Air Force. He was shot down by three Messerschmitts on his way back from a bombing raid. Over Heligoland.’

  There was a pause.<
br />
  She turned towards him. ‘I know that,’ she said gently. ‘They wrote to me from the squadron.’

  Chapter Eight

  The cinema was half-full of people, moving about and laying down their palliasses for the night. The air was full of the fumes of the cooking-stove at the far end, and the smoke of French cigarettes; in the dim light it seemed thick and heavy.

  Howard glanced towards the girl. ‘You knew my son as well as that, mademoiselle?’ he said. ‘I did not know.’

  In turn, she felt the urge to talk. ‘We used to write,’ she said. She went on quickly, ‘Ever since Cidoton we used to write, almost each week. And we met once, in Paris—just before the war. In June, that was.’ She paused, and then said quietly, ‘Almost a year ago to-day.’

  The old man said: ‘My dear, I never knew anything about this at all.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nor did I tell my parents.’

  There was a silence while he tried to collect his thoughts and readjust his outlook. ‘You said they wrote to you,’ he said at last. ‘But how did they know your address?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘He would have made arrangements,’ she said. ‘He was very kind, monsieur; very, very kind. And we were great friends …’

  He said quietly: ‘You must have thought me very different, mademoiselle. Very rude. But I assure you, I knew nothing about this. Nothing at all.’

  There was a little pause.

  ‘May I ask one question?’ he said presently.

  ‘But yes, Monsieur Howard.’

  He stared ahead of him awkwardly. ‘Your mother told me that you had had trouble,’ he said. ‘That there had been a young man—who was dead. No doubt, that was somebody else?’

  ‘There was nobody else,’ she said quietly. ‘Nobody but John.’

  She shook herself and sat up. ‘See,’ she said, ‘One must put down a palliasse, or there will be no room left by the wall.’ She got to her feet and stirred him, and began to pull down one of the sacks of straw from the pile. He joined her, reluctant and confused, and for a quarter of an hour they worked, making their beds.