by Nevil Shute
‘Go and lie down, Nicole,’ he said. ‘You must get some sleep.’
‘I do not want to sleep, monsieur,’ she said. ‘Truly I am better sitting here like this.’
‘I’ve been thinking about things,’ he said.
‘I also have been thinking.’
He turned to her in the darkness. ‘I am so very sorry to have brought you into all this trouble,’ he said quietly. ‘I did want to avoid that, and I thought that we were going to.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It does not matter.’ She hesitated. ‘I have been thinking about different things to that.’
‘What things?’ he asked.
‘When you introduced Focquet—you said I was your daughter-in-law.’
‘I had to say something,’ he remarked. ‘And that’s very nearly true.’
In the dim light he looked into her eyes, smiling a little. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Is that how you think of me?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
There was a long silence in the prison. One of the children, probably Willem, stirred and whimpered uneasily in his sleep; outside the guard paced on the dusty road.
At last she said: ‘What we did was wrong—very wrong.’ She turned towards him. ‘Truly, I did not mean to do wrong when I went to Paris, neither did John. We did not go with that in mind at all. I do not want that you should think it was his fault. It was nobody’s fault, neither of us. Also, it did not seem wrong at the time.’
His mind drifted back fifty years. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s how these things happen. But you aren’t sorry, are you?’
She did not answer that, but she went on more easily. ‘He was very, very naughty, monsieur. The understanding was that I was to show him Paris, and it was for that that I went to Paris to meet him. But when the time came, he was not interested in the churches or in the museums, or the picture-galleries at all.’ There was a touch of laughter in her voice. ‘He was only interested in me.’
‘Very natural,’ he said. It seemed the only thing to say.
‘It was very embarrassing, I assure you, I did not know what I should do.’
He laughed. ‘Well, you made your mind up in the end.’
She said reproachfully: ‘Monsieur—it is not a matter to laugh over. You are just like John. He also used to laugh at things like that.’
He said: ‘Tell me one thing, Nicole. Did he ask you if you would marry him?’
She said: ‘He wanted that we should marry in Paris before he went back to England. He said that under English law that would be possible.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ he asked curiously.
She was silent for a minute. Then she said: ‘I was afraid of you, monsieur.’
‘Of me?’
She nodded. ‘I was terrified. It now sounds very silly, but—it was so.’
He struggled to understand. ‘What were you frightened of?’ he asked.
She said: ‘Figure it to yourself. Your son would have brought home a foreign girl, that he had married very suddenly in Paris. You would have thought that he had been foolish in a foreign city, as young men sometimes are. That he had been trapped by a bad woman into an unhappy marriage. I do not see how you could have thought otherwise.’
‘If I had thought that at first,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have thought it for long.’
‘I know that now. That is what John told me at the time. But I did not think that it was right to take the risk. I told John, it would be better for everybody that we should be a little more discreet, you understand.’
‘I see. You wanted to wait a bit.’
She said: ‘Not longer than could be helped. But I wanted very much that everything should be correct, that we should start off right. Because, to be married, it is for all one’s life, and one marries not only to the man but to the relations also. And in a mixed marriage things are certain to be difficult, in any case. And so, I said that I would come to England for his next leave, in September or October, and we would meet in London, and he could then take me to see you in your country home. And then you would write to my father, and everything would be quite in order and correct.’
‘And then the war came,’ he said quietly.
She repeated: ‘Yes, monsieur, then the war came. It was not then possible for me to visit England. It would almost have been easier for John to visit Paris again, but he could get no leave. And so I went on struggling to get my permis and the visa month after month.
‘And then,’ she said, ‘they wrote to tell me what had happened.’
They sat there for a long time, practically in silence. The air grew colder as the night went on. Presently the old man heard the girl’s breathing grow more regular and knew she was asleep, still sitting up upon the bare wooden floor.
After a time she stirred and fell half over. He got up stiffly and led her, still practically asleep, to the palliasse, made her lie down, and put a blanket over her. In a short time she was asleep again.
For a long time he stood by the window, looking out over the harbour mouth. The moon had risen; the white plumes of surf upon the rocks showed clearly on the blackness of the sea. He wondered what was going to happen to them all. It might very well be that he would be taken from the children and sent to a concentration camp; that for him would be the end, before so very long. The thought of what might happen to the children distressed him terribly. At all costs, he must do his best to stay at liberty. If he could manage that it might be possible for him to make a home for them, to look after them till the war was over. A home in Chartres, perhaps, not far from Nicole and her mother. It would take little money to live simply with them, in one room or in two rooms at the most. The thought of penury did not distress him very much. His old life seemed very, very far away.
Presently, the blackness of the night began to pale towards the east, and it grew colder still. He moved back to the wall and, wrapped in a blanket, sat down in a corner. Presently he fell into an uneasy sleep.
At six o’clock the clumping of the soldiers’ boots in the corridor outside woke him from a doze. He stirred and sat upright; Nicole was awake and sitting up, running her fingers through her hair in an endeavour to put it into order without a comb. A German Oberschütze came in and made signs to them to get up, indicating the way to the toilet.
Presently, a private brought them china bowls, some hunks of bread and a large jug of bitter coffee. They breakfasted, and waited for something to happen. They were silent and depressed; even the children caught the atmosphere and sat about in gloomy inactivity.
Presently the door was flung open, and the Feldwebel was there with a couple of privates. ‘Marchez,’ he said. ‘Allez, vite.’
They were herded out and into a grey, camouflaged motor-lorry with a closed, van-like body. The two German privates got into this with them and the doors were shut and locked upon them. The Feldwebel got into the seat beside the driver, turned and inspected them through a little hatchway to the driver’s compartment. The lorry started.
They were taken to Lannilis, and unloaded at the big house opposite the church, from the window of which floated the Swastika flag. Here they were herded into a corridor between their guards. The Feldwebel went into a door and closed it behind him.
They waited thus for over half an hour. The children, apprehensive and docile at the first, became bored and restless. Pierre said, in his small voice: ‘Please, monsieur, may I go out and play in the square?’
Sheila and Ronnie said in unison, and very quickly: ‘May I go too?’
Howard said: ‘Not just now. You’ll have to stay here for a little while.’
Sheila said mutinously: ‘I don’t want to stay here. I want to go out in the sun and play.’
Nicole stooped to her and said: ‘Do you remember Babar the Elephant?’ The little girl nodded.
‘And Jacko the Monkey? What did he do?’
Laughter, as at a huge, secret joke. ‘He climbed up Babar’s tail, right up on to his back!’
‘Whatever did he do that for?’
The stolid, grey-faced Germans looked on mirthlessly, uncomprehending. For the first time in their lives they were seeing foreigners, displaying the crushing might and power of their mighty land. It confused them and perplexed them that their prisoners should be so flippant as to play games with their children in the corridor outside the very office of the Gestapo. It found the soft spot in the armour of their pride; they felt an insult which could not be properly defined. This was not what they had understood when their Führer last had spoken from the Sport-Palast. This victory was not as they had thought it would be.
The door opened, the sentries sprang to attention, clicking their heels. Nicole glanced upwards, and then stood up, holding Sheila in one hand. From the office Feldwebel cried, ‘Achtung!’ and a young officer, a Rittmeister of the Tank Corps came out. He was dressed in a black uniform not unlike the British battle-dress; on his head he wore a black beret garnished with the eagle and swastika, and a wreath-like badge. On his shoulder-straps an aluminium skull and crossbones gleamed dull upon the black cloth.
Howard straightened up and Focquet took his hands out of his pockets. The children stopped chattering to stare curiously at the man in black.
He had a notebook and a pencil in his hand. He spoke to Howard first. ‘Wie heissen Sie?’ he asked. ‘Ihr Familien-name und Taufname? Ihr Beruf?’
Somebody translated into indifferent French and the particulars of all the party were written down. As regards nationality, Howard declared himself, Sheila, and Ronnie to be English; there was no use denying it. He said that Willem and Marjan were of nationality unknown.
The young officer in black went into the office. In a few minutes the door was flung open again and the party were called to attention. The Feldwebel came to the door.
‘Folgen Sie mir! Halt! Rührt Euch!’ They found themselves in the office, facing a long table. Behind this sat the officer who had interrogated them in the passage. By his side was an older man with a square, close-cropped head and a keen, truculent expression. He held himself very straight and stiff, as if he were in a straight waistcoat, and he also wore a black uniform, but more smartly cut, and with a shoulder-belt in black leather resembling the Sam Browne. This man, as Howard subsequently learned, was Major Diessen of the Gestapo.
He stared at Howard, looking him up and down, noting the clothes he wore, the Breton casque upon his head, the stained rust-coloured poncho jacket, the dirty blue overall trousers.
‘So,’ he said harshly, but in quite good English. ‘We still have English gentlemen travelling in France.’ He paused. ‘Nice and Monte Carlo,’ he said. ‘I hope that you have had a very nice time.’
The old man was silent. There was no point in trying to answer the taunts.
The officer turned to Nicole. ‘You are French,’ he said, fiercely and vehemently. ‘You have been helping this man in his secret work against your country. You are a traitor to the Armistice. I think you will be shot for this.’
The girl stared at him, dumbfounded. Howard said: ‘There is no need to frighten her. We are quite ready to tell you the truth.’
‘I know your English truth,’ the Gestapo officer replied. ‘I will find my own, even if I have to whip every inch of skin from her body and pull out every finger-nail.’
Howard said quietly: ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I want to know what means you used to make her help you in your work.’
There was a small, insistent tug at the old man’s sleeve. He glanced down and it was Sheila, whispering a request.
‘Presently,’ he said gently. ‘You must wait a little.’
‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘I want to go now.’
The old man turned to the Gestapo officer. ‘There is a small matter that requires attention,’ he said placidly. He indicated Rose. ‘May this one take this little girl outside for a minute? They will come back.’
The young Tank Corps officer smiled broadly; even the Gestapo man relaxed a little. The Rittmeister spoke to the sentry, who sprang to attention and escorted the two little girls from the room.
Howard said: ‘I will answer your question so far as I can. I have no work in France, but I was trying to get back to England with these children. As for this young lady, she was a great friend of my son, who is now dead. We have known each other for some time.’
Nicole said: ‘That is true. Monsieur Howard came to us in Chartres when all travelling to England had been stopped. I have known Focquet here since I was a little girl. We were trying to induce him to take monsieur and the children back to England in his boat, but he was unwilling on account of the regulations.’
The old man stood silent, in admiration of the girl. If she got away with that one it let Focquet out completely.
The officer’s lips curled. ‘I have no doubt that Mister Howard wanted to return to England,’ he said dryly. ‘It is getting quite too hot here for fellows of his sort.’
He said suddenly and sharply: ‘We captured Charenton. He is to be executed to-morrow, by shooting.’
There was a momentary silence. The German eyed the party narrowly, his keen eyes running from one to the other. The girl wrinkled her brows in perplexity. The young Rittmeister of the Tank Corps sat with an impassive face, drawing a pattern on his blotting-pad.
Howard said at last: ‘I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean. I don’t know anybody called Charenton.’
‘No,’ said the German. ‘And you do not know your Major Cochrane, nor Room 212 on the second floor of your War Office in Whitehall.’
The old man could feel the scrutiny of everybody in the room upon him. ‘I have never been in the War Office,’ he said, ‘and I know nothing about the rooms. I used to know a Major Cochrane who had a house near Totnes, but he died in 1924. That is the only Cochrane that I ever knew.’
The Gestapo officer smiled without mirth. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘Yes, I do,’ the old man said. ‘Because it is the truth.’
Nicole interposed, speaking in French. ‘May I say a word. There is a misunderstanding here, truly there is. Monsieur Howard has come here directly from the Jura, stopping only with us in Chartres. He will tell you himself.’
Howard said: ‘That is so. Would you like to hear how I came to be here?’
The German officer looked ostentatiously at his wristwatch and leaned back in his chair, insolently bored. ‘If you must,’ he said indifferently. ‘I will give you three minutes.’
Nicole plucked his arm. ‘Tell also who the children are and where they came from,’ she said urgently.
The old man paused to collect his thoughts. It was impossible for him, at his age, to compress his story into three minutes; his mind moved too slowly. ‘I came to France from England in the middle of April,’ he said. ‘I stayed a night or two in Paris, and then I went on and stayed a night in Dijon. You see, I had arranged to go to a place called Cidoton in the Jura, for a little fishing holiday.’
The Gestapo officer sat up suddenly, galvanised into life. ‘What sort of fish?’ he barked. ‘Answer me—quick!’
Howard stared at him. ‘Blue trout,’ he said. ‘Sometimes you get a grayling, but they aren’t very common.’
‘And what tackle to catch them with—quickly!’
The old man stared at him, nonplussed, not knowing where to start. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you need a nine-foot cast, but the stream is usually very strong, so 3X is fine enough. Of course, it’s all fishing wet, you understand.’
The German relaxed. ‘And what flies do you use?’
A faint pleasure came to the old man. ‘Well,’ he said with relish, ‘a Dark Olive gets them as well as anything, or a large Blue Dun. I got one or two on a thing called a Jungle Cock, but———’
The German interrupted him. ‘Go on with your story,’ he said rudely. ‘I have no time to listen to your fishing exploits.’
Howard plunged into his tale, compressing it
as much as seemed possible to him. The two German officers listened with growing attention and with growing incredulity. In ten minutes or so the old man had reached the end.
The Gestapo officer, Major Diessen, looked at him scornfully. ‘And now,’ he said. ‘If you had been able to return to England, what would you have done with all these children?’
Howard said: ‘I meant to send them to America.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is safe over there. Because this war is bad for children to see. It would be better for them to be out of it.’
The German stared at him. ‘Very fine words. But who was going to pay to send them to America, may I ask?’
The old man said: ‘Oh, I should have done that.’
The other smiled, scornfully amused. ‘And what would they do in America? Starve?’
‘Oh no. I have a married daughter over there. She would have made a home for them until the war was over.’
‘This is a waste of time,’ the German said. ‘You must think me a stupid fellow to be taken in with such a tale.’
Nicole said: ‘Nevertheless, m’sieur, it is quite true. I knew the son and I have known the father. The daughter would be much the same. American people are generous to refugees, to children.’
Diessen turned to her. ‘So,’ he sneered, ‘mademoiselle comes in to support this story. But now for mademoiselle herself. We learn that mademoiselle was a friend of the old English gentleman’s son. A very great friend.…’
He barked at her suddenly: ‘His mistress, no doubt?’
She drew herself up. ‘You may say so if you like,’ she said quietly. ‘You can call a sunset by a filthy name, but you do not spoil its beauty, monsieur.’
There was a pause. The young Tank officer leaned across and whispered a word or two to the Gestapo officer. Diessen nodded and turned back to the old man.
‘By the dates,’ he said, ‘you could have returned to England if you had travelled straight through Dijon. But you did not do so. That is the weak point of your story. That is where your lies begin in earnest.’
He said sharply: ‘Why did you stay in France? Tell me now, quickly, and with no more nonsense. I promise you that you will talk before to-night, in any case. It will be better for you to talk now.’
