Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  Men struggled past Marcel as he got to his hands and knees and began crawling towards the open back door. From the other end of the barn came a yell as the German guards opened the main doors to discover the inferno within. Many of the prisoners had now seen the broken door and there was a stampede away from the blaze towards freedom outside. Marcel, crawling, was almost trampled in the rush to safety, but as he reached the door he managed to regain his feet and stagger out into the blessed fresh air. Outside, men were milling in every direction, completely overwhelming the guards who had dashed round from the front of the barn when they realised that there was an escape from the back.

  Shouts of ‘Halt!’ went unheeded as the French soldiers scented freedom, and despite the outnumbered guards firing into the crowd, very few obeyed the shouted order in their bid to escape into the night.

  Marcel had been horrified at Durand’s plan to achieve the escape, deliberately causing men, his own fellow countrymen, to be burned to death so that he might go free, but once it was in motion, he wasn’t going to miss the chance to make good his escape. He pushed his way through the press of prisoners, shoving men aside as he ran, deep into the night. The fitful moon aided the escaping men, disappearing behind a bank of cloud, thus plunging the scene into darkness, leaving only the barn, a blazing beacon, a funeral pyre to light the sky.

  Since that dreadful night Marcel had made his way slowly westward back to Paris. On the way he had stopped in tiny villages, working a day’s labour in the fields for an evening meal. He divested himself of the rags of his uniform and dressed in smock and gaiters provided by a farmer in return for chopping wood. The area was full of Prussian soldiers, camped outside towns and keeping watch for the remnants of the French army trying to regroup, but the local population were ready to help any French soldier continue his escape from the hated Prussians and he was often given food and shelter.

  It made for very slow progress. He heard that Paris was now besieged, entirely surrounded by the German army. The only escapes had been made by balloon, the only means of communication by carrier pigeon. Marcel gave little thought to the fate of his family; he was not worried about them for surely they would be safely at St Etienne. He had left them there last summer before going to join his unit and he couldn’t believe they would have gone back to Paris in the autumn. There was no way to let them know he had survived and since the dreadful night of the barn fire he knew he would never tell them how. He was haunted by nightmares of the fire. Night after night he awoke shouting, running with sweat and shaking with fear as he dreamed of the fire, of burning to death. In some of his dreams it was he who struck the fateful match and he would wake, shaking, his eyes staring into the darkness, afraid to go back to sleep. He had no idea if Durand, the true author of that night’s misery, had survived his own escape attempt. He hoped he had not, but as he was the only one who knew what was about to happen, and apart from Marcel the only one who knew there was another way out, Marcel had little doubt that the cruel, callous man had made good his escape. If he ever came across the man again, Marcel vowed he would kill him and avenge his murdered comrades.

  Over the winter months Marcel had found work in a brewery, and when the siege had been lifted in January he had continued to work there until the spring warmed the earth and new growth appeared on the trees. Rumours of the National Guard defying the government spread into the countryside. An unpopular peace was signed with the Germans and there was great unrest in the city. Then and only then did he return to Paris to take up arms against the authorities who had sent him, and thousands like him, to face the Prussian guns, generals whose incompetence and confusion amongst themselves had led to the humiliation of defeat after defeat and the decimation of the French army.

  Now, as he came in through the La Villette gate, Marcel knew there was no point in going back to his family home. If he reappeared now, they would expect him to re-enlist in the French army and put down what was fast becoming an insurrection in the capital city. Nothing was further from his mind. He intended to join that insurrection; nothing would make him fight for the government again. This time he would be ranged alongside the rebellious factions of the National Guard, defending its takeover of the city. He wondered if Georges had survived the war so far. Their paths had crossed once in the course of the fighting, almost passing in the night a week before Sedan; time only for a brief exchange of news and a handshake, neither knowing if he would ever see the other again.

  Back in Paris at last, Marcel climbed the hill to Montmartre which he had heard was the National Guard stronghold, determined to volunteer as a foot soldier, but as he reached the cemetery he found himself caught up in a tumultuous crowd. Hundreds of people pushing and running and shoving and shouting. There were chants of ‘Long live the Republic!’ and ‘Death to all traitors’.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Marcel grabbed the arm of a young woman who was yelling obscenities into the air. ‘Tell me what’s happened?’ he demanded. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘They tried to take our cannon,’ she screamed, ‘so we shot them! Two generals dead! Long live the Republic!’ And with that she pulled free and disappeared into the baying crowd. Two generals dead! Dragged along by the swell of excited people, Marcel allowed himself to be carried forward, cheering with the best of them.

  It was then that he saw his father. Emile was also being swept along in the mob, but he took no part in its exuberance. He was clearly terrified, his face grey with fear. Marcel dropped back into the crowd, not wanting his father to see him, though it would have been unlikely that Emile would have recognised his younger son even if they had bumped into each other, face to face. Gone was the attractive, laughing-faced boy he’d last seen almost a year ago, replaced by an angry and bitter young man, gaunt, bearded, with a harsh expression and cruel eyes, out to avenge atrocities that no man should ever have to see.

  What on earth is Papa doing here, Marcel wondered, caught up in this roiling crowd? Why is he in Paris at all? Surely he and Maman and the children were safely in St Etienne! Surely he had taken them to safety as soon as the fighting had broken out.

  Moments later he could no longer see him. His father had disappeared into the throng and Marcel began to wonder if he’d seen him at all; maybe his eyes had deceived him and it was someone else of similar face and build. Marcel dismissed him from his mind and continued up the hill to volunteer.

  The sergeant at the command post on the heights of Montmartre accepted Marcel’s services with alacrity. More and more of the government soldiers were changing sides, deserting the army and joining the dissident National Guard. Marcel was one of many such, and with his return unknown to his family, he disappeared into the chaos of the city, just another deserter, pitted against the government forces on the brink of a bloody civil war.

  6

  Georges came home on a sunny morning two days after his message and his coming brought excitement and laughter into the house. His parents greeted him with delight while his sisters mobbed him and he had to fend them off like so many boisterous puppies. Even Clarice forgot her dignity and hugged and hugged him, crying, ‘Georges, Georges. You’ve come back. You’ve come home,’ while Hélène and Louise climbed one onto each knee and clung to him as he laughed and hugged them in turn. Hélène and Georges had always been particularly close despite the disparity in their ages, and though she was happy to share him with her sisters for now, she was determined to get him to herself for a while before he left.

  Berthe, on instruction from Hélène, had prepared Georges’s favourite food and the celebration dinner in his honour was a gay and festive affair, for which even Louise was allowed to stay up. When at last the girls were collected for bed by Marie-Jeanne, they were all tired, their faces pink with excitement and their carefully dressed hair awry from the party games in which everyone except Papa had joined; and even Papa had watched with an indulgent eye instead of returning to the peaceful seclusion of his study.

  Left alone with hi
s parents at last, Georges sat back with a glass of cognac and told them of the past nine months. Of Marcel he had heard nothing since before the Battle of Sedan, when the Emperor had been vanquished and thousands of his men had been killed or taken prisoner.

  ‘It was dreadful at Sedan,’ Georges said quietly. ‘The whole army was in chaos and the German bombardment never stopped. No one knew what was going on and when we did get any orders they were in complete conflict with the ones we’d had before. The Emperor was there, and somehow he managed to move from place to place trying to encourage the men, but no one took any notice of him. He’s a pitiful little man.’

  ‘Georges!’ expostulated his father. ‘That’s no way to speak of the Emperor.’

  But Georges was unrepentant. ‘It’s the truth, sir, he was an incompetent, and the army was better off without him. He ordered a white flag to be flown before the battle was lost. General Wimpffen had it hauled down, but the damage was done. Morale was gone and in the end defeat was inevitable.’ Georges sipped his cognac and his parents waited in silence for him to continue his tale. Neither could imagine the horrors of such a battle where civilians and soldiers alike were subjected to continual bombardment, where fear ran like fire through the streets consuming not only the fighting men desperately trying to break through and come to grips with the enemy, but also the civilians, men, women and children cowering in their houses, homes which might at any moment come tumbling about their ears.

  ‘When the white flag was finally allowed to fly and the guns stopped it was quiet, but frightening. There seemed to be a total silence, though of course there wasn’t – there were too many people wounded or dying for that. After the surrender we officers were offered a chance to give our parole and never to fight against the Germans again. Several of the fellows took up the offer and went free but I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t be able to escape, so I refused. I was sent to the internment camp – the camp of misery we called it. It was just a piece of land in a huge loop in the river, where we were herded in like animals. There was no shelter and almost no food – and as it turned out, no prospect of escape. Several tried jumping into the river to swim to freedom, but the Prussian soldiers camped on the opposite bank used them for target practice. I doubt if anyone made it to safety on the other side and if they did, I doubt if they got very far with so many Germans in the surrounding countryside.’

  Silence again lapsed between them as they contemplated the horror of what he had described.

  After a moment or two, Rosalie asked, ‘Was Marcel a prisoner too? Did you see him?’

  ‘No, Maman,’ said Georges gently, and added as he saw the hope fade from her eyes, ‘But there were thousands of us there. I did look for him, of course, and I found some of his company, but no one had news of him.’

  ‘He must have been killed then,’ said Rosalie flatly.

  ‘He may have been, Maman, it’s something we must face up to, but on the other hand no one had seen him killed, and even now men are filtering back into Paris and many of them have come to rejoin their old regiments.’

  What Georges said was in effect true, but the numbers of such men were few and he himself held out little hope of news from his brother now.

  ‘What happened to you then?’ asked Emile, anxious to turn the subject away from Marcel.

  ‘Well, I was there in the camp for about a week. It was so bloody awful, I beg your pardon, Maman, it was so awful that I lost track of the days. Existing was the most any of us could do. Anyway, at last our company was called and we were marched out – not that any of us were really in much condition to march. Some food had been brought in by the citizens of Sedan, but there’d been little enough of it and with the cold and the wet none of us had much strength. Anyhow, we were moved out on our way to Germany as prisoners, and I watched for a chance to escape. The guards were well prepared, however, and the two men who I saw make a break as we passed through a neck of forest were shot in the back.’

  Rosalie gasped and at the sight of her pale face Georges slid over the events of the few days that followed.

  ‘We were lucky,’ he said. ‘We were exchanged for Prussian prisoners taken at Metz and so suddenly I was free again’ – he smiled wryly – ‘free, that is, within the besieged fortress of Metz.’

  ‘And that was a shameful defeat for France,’ put in Emile bitterly. ‘A complete fiasco. General Bazaine was a traitor and should have been shot.’

  ‘He should have made a break in the early days of the siege,’ conceded Georges, ‘but in the end he had no alternative but to surrender – he’d left it too long and we were starving. Food was rationed but even that wasn’t enough. Some of us got out. I managed to get hold of a woman’s dress and shawl and slip through the lines.’

  ‘But how?’ asked Rosalie, pressing her hands to her mouth in agitation. ‘How did you get away?’

  ‘Well, food was so desperately short, we used to creep out into the fields beside the city and grub for potatoes. Occasionally the Germans fired over our heads to discourage us, but often they turned away and left us to search. Anyway, this time I carried a basket and was wearing my dress, so hoping they wouldn’t shoot a woman, I worked my way towards the edge of the field. It was early in the morning, and very wet and misty so the visibility was pretty poor. I knew there was a clump of bushes in the far corner of the field, so scuffling along, I made for that. Once there I lay down and pulled a covering of leaves over me and waited for dark. It poured with rain all day and I dared not move an inch in case a German from one of the outposts spotted me. I lay there for nearly eight hours…’

  ‘Eight hours!’ echoed Rosalie in horror.

  Georges gave a rueful grin. ‘I couldn’t come out in the daylight, Maman, so I had to wait until evening. When at last it was dark enough to risk moving I was so cold and wet and stiff I could hardly stand. There was no moon and I couldn’t see where I was going. Twice I fell flat on my face and I sounded like an elephant moving through the undergrowth. How the guards didn’t hear me I don’t know, except that the weather was so bad they were probably sheltering in their dugouts.’ Georges shivered now at the recollection.

  ‘Anyway, I did manage to stumble on and get clear of the immediate line of German guard posts. I had no idea where I was going except to put as much distance as possible between me and that fortress. I found a road and decided to follow that as I thought I’d make better progress than across country I didn’t know. It was a mistake and I nearly ran into a German troop bivouacked at the roadside. They heard me and there was some shouting, but I hitched up the petticoats I was still wearing and took to my heels.’ Georges laughed a little at the recollection of his undignified flight. But his parents did not smile, they just sat silently watching this tall soldier who was their son, who had returned to them so much older than his twenty-one years; so different from the young man who had left them in St Etienne less than a year ago. His face, though still handsome, was leaner and his eyes more serious; experience had left its mark both in the premature lines which creased his forehead, and in his bearing and demeanour. Georges was no longer an inexperienced youth, but a man grown to maturity and refined by war.

  ‘It was after that that I knew I had to find somewhere to hide, or I’d be caught again at first light. So I kept going, hoping I was moving away from the actual German lines. It was pouring with rain and there was no moon or stars, so I couldn’t actually tell. Still I was lucky. As it began to get light I reached the outskirts of a village and found a house with a hen coop in the garden.’

  ‘A hen coop?’ exclaimed Rosalie in surprise.

  ‘Yes, and I can tell you Maman, I’ve never been more glad to see anything. I was soaking wet and freezing cold and just wanted to get out of the rain, so I crawled inside. The hens cackled like mad, but I was too tired to care.’

  ‘My poor boy,’ murmured Rosalie. ‘You must have been exhausted.’

  ‘I was, but there was plenty of hay in there and I simply fell asleep.
After that it seemed like a miracle. When I woke up again I wasn’t in the henhouse any more, but in a bed with white linen sheets and soft pillows. It was the first bed I had slept in since long before the battle at Sedan. I tried to sit up but I couldn’t move. I was as weak as a kitten. There was a woman sitting by the bed and when she saw I was awake she asked me if I could understand her. I said I could and she cried out, “The Lord be praised,” and rushed from the room. She came back at once with her husband, who smiled and asked me how I was. I managed a croaky, “Very well, thank you, sir,” which made him laugh and tell me I was a brave fellow.’

  ‘But where were you?’ demanded Rosalie.

  ‘It turned out,’ replied Georges, ‘that I had chosen the henhouse in the garden of a lawyer, Monsieur Claviet. The maid found me when she came to collect the eggs and had called her mistress. At first, of course, they thought I was a woman, until they pulled me clear and saw several days’ growth on my chin. My disguise had only been for deception at a distance. Anyway, they guessed I was a soldier who’d escaped and it was very obvious I was ill so they’d taken me into the house, cleaned me up and put me to bed. They tell me I was delirious and shouted a good deal. In fact, one day when there was a German troop in the village they were afraid I’d betray them all with my cries – but at last the fever broke and I regained my senses. Madame Claviet and her daughter nursed me through a long illness and all through my convalescence. They kept me warm and fed and at last my strength began to come back. I was there for three months before they would let me consider rejoining the army. Three months – so that the siege of Paris was nearly over before I could begin to make my way back to find my regiment. Metz had fallen long before, Gambetta had just been defeated at Orleans and Paris was being bombarded.’

  ‘But why didn’t you write to us?’ cried out his mother. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were safe at least? We might even have fetched you to St Etienne.’