Hélène kept a firm hold of his arm, pulling him down to sit on one of the straw bales, and went on, ‘And now he’s rescued me from the Gaston-man! Oh, Georges, I’m so pleased to see you. Marcel said you’d come, and you have. He said you’d take me home to Maman and Papa in St Etienne.’
‘Did he now?’ said Georges tightly. ‘Well, between us we’ll get you there. Somehow.’
‘And Jeannot,’ Hélène said, a statement, not a question.
‘I’m not so sure about Jeannot,’ Georges told her. ‘It’s going to be difficult enough getting you out.’
‘But it was Jeannot who rescued me,’ declared Hélène. ‘Gaston’s after him as well. You can’t leave him here.’
‘We’ll talk about it when Marcel comes back,’ Georges said repressively, wondering who this ‘Gaston-man’ was and hoping that Marcel would come back very soon. ‘How long have you been hiding here, Hélène?’
‘For ages,’ answered the girl with a sigh. ‘It was so boring until Jeannot came.’
‘Did Marcel say when he’d be back?’
Hélène shook her head. ‘No, he said he didn’t know. He never knows, but he’s promised he will. Anyway, I don’t mind now I’m not on my own. I’ve been teaching Jeannot to read,’ she added proudly.
Georges longed to ask Hélène where she’d been and what had happened to her, but decided to leave explanations for now. Time for all that when they had her safely out of the city. It was a great relief to find her safe and well and looked after by Marcel, but with the fighting intensifying, she wouldn’t be safe here for long. He himself was only safe by keeping on the move.
He got to his feet and said, ‘I have to go now, Hélène, but don’t worry, I’ll be back soon and you’re safe here for now.’
‘What about the gun?’ demanded Jeannot.
‘What about it?’ snapped Georges. He didn’t like the idea of a pistol in the hands of a boy like Jeannot.
‘Your brother give it me to protect Hélène with,’ Jeannot declared. ‘I need it back. If somebody comes looking it’s the only thing we’ve got.’
Georges sighed. He wasn’t at all happy about leaving Hélène with this street kid, but he did have a point.
‘All right,’ he said, putting the pistol onto one of the straw bales, ‘but you be bloody careful with it. Right?’
He was about to leave when Marcel came into the garden. Hearing voices in the stables, he approached softly, but when he recognised Georges’s voice, he announced himself and pushed open the door.
While the two children slept, the brothers discussed how they might get Hélène out of Paris. Georges was determined not to reveal how he came and went, and Marcel was careful not to let him know where the guards were mounted on the city walls.
‘I can’t take her now,’ Georges said finally. ‘I’ll have to make some plans, but I’ll come back for her in a couple of days.’
‘Don’t take too long,’ warned Marcel. ‘Things are going to get far worse.’ He looked across at Georges. ‘What about the boy?’ he asked.
‘What about him?’
‘She wants you to take him too.’
‘I know,’ Georges said, ‘but I can’t. It’ll be hard enough getting her through without having another child to worry about. He’s a street kid, he’s well able to look after himself.’
Georges came back for Hélène two nights later, and explained the plans he had made.
‘I can get her out of the city,’ he said to Marcel, ‘but not to St Etienne – it would take too long and I have my duties…’ He let the words hang but they both knew he would be part of the final attack on the city. ‘I’ve sent a message to Sylvie Claviet, the girl I’m going to marry when all this is over. I’ve asked her to come and fetch Hélène once we get to Versailles and arrange for her to be taken to St Etienne. It’s the only way of getting her there and I know Sylvie will look after her in the meantime.’
‘Married?’ Marcel was momentarily diverted.
‘Yes.’ Georges’s eyes softened. ‘You’ll love her when you meet her.’
If you meet her. If I meet her. The same thought was in each brother’s mind but neither of them spoke it.
‘But what about Jeannot?’ demanded Hélène. ‘He has to come too.’
‘I can’t take him,’ replied Georges firmly. ‘I can’t ask Sylvie and her family to take in a Paris street kid.’
‘A Paris street kid who saved my life,’ cried Hélène in frustration.
‘You say he did,’ began Georges, but Hélène interrupted.
‘He did,’ she insisted, ‘and was nearly killed himself. I won’t go without him. You can’t leave him here where that Gaston-man might find him.’ She sat down stubbornly on a straw bale and looked at her brothers defiantly.
‘Might as well take him,’ Marcel said with a meaningful look at Georges. ‘Once he’s out of Paris, you don’t have to send him with this Sylvie of yours. Once he’s the other side of the wall, he can look after himself.’ He turned to Jeannot and said, ‘Can’t you, lad?’
Jeannot nodded. He’d agree to anything to escape from the city, where the bombardment was getting heavier every day.
‘You don’t have to worry about Gaston any more, Hélène,’ Marcel continued. ‘I promise you. Jeannot’s told me where he’s living. He won’t come after either of you again.’
‘I won’t go without Jeannot,’ Hélène said doggedly, and with an exasperated sigh Georges gave in. There was no time for further argument.
‘Come on then, the both of you, but listen hard. You have to do exactly what I tell you, and I mean exactly. No argument, no questions, right? You follow me and you don’t speak, to me or to each other. Understood?’ Both children nodded and having won her point, Hélène said meekly, ‘Yes, Georges.’
Marcel shook hands briefly with Georges and then, giving Hélène a quick hug, let them out of the gate and closed it behind them. He gave them several minutes before slipping out himself and setting off after them. He wasn’t going to give them away, or alert the guards to their progress, but he was determined to discover how Georges got in and out of Paris undetected. Once they were safely the other side of the wall then he would ‘discover’ it and it would be closed off. There’d be no more back doors for Georges or any other spies to infiltrate the city.
Georges led them silently through the back streets. The night sky was broken with cloud but occasional shafts of moonlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the streets below before another scudding cloud plunged them back into shadow. Distant, sporadic gunfire came on the night air, but Georges didn’t slacken his pace. He was desperate to get to the comparative safety of the Duponts’ house; when they were in the tunnel, they should be safe from discovery. Once he thought he heard a footstep somewhere close by and spun round, sweeping the children behind him, but though his eyes were accustomed to the dark he couldn’t see anyone or anything and decided he must have imagined it. Keeping Hélène’s hand in his, he led them stealthily through the shadows. It was past curfew and the streets were deserted, citizens obediently indoors.
Then it began, the cannonade. Guns from the far side of the wall opened fire and immediately there was return fire from the Communard cannon at the Trocadero. The return fire was badly directed and fell short, pounding into the homes on the inside of the walls. Parisians were being bombarded not only by government forces, but by their own gunners.
Georges and the children were caught out in the crossfire. None of the gunners could see them, but the shells fell about them from both sides. Masonry from surrounding houses came crashing to the ground, doors exploded open and glass crashed from windows. Fires burst into being, spreading quickly through the houses, licking draperies, catching the woodwork of the exposed roof beams. Before long, flames were leaping into the air, casting gold and red flickering light over the whole area. Panic-stricken people streamed from their houses and apartments, men running, women screaming, carrying babies, herding terrified children awa
y from the burning buildings. Anxious to escape the smoke and flames, they rushed out into streets that, lit by the soaring flames, were now an easy target for the enemy gunners as still the bombardment continued.
‘This way!’ shouted Georges, but his words were lost in the roar of the cannon and still clutching Hélène by the hand, he pulled her clear as a burning beam crashed to the ground only metres away. Chaos reigned as the crowds pushed and shoved each other in their efforts to escape. Georges was forcing their way through the crush when there was another explosion close by and he gave a sudden cry, falling to the ground, clutching his leg.
‘Georges!’ Hélène screamed. ‘You’re hurt!’ She dropped down beside him, trying to pull him up.
‘It’s not bad,’ Georges said through gritted teeth. ‘Just a splinter in my leg.’ He got to his hands and knees and with a heave upwards from Jeannot, regained his feet.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get away from here.’
Even as he said that there was another salvo causing further screams and panic amongst those in the street. With great determination, Georges began limping towards the sheltering darkness of a street beyond the fire.
‘Follow me,’ he rasped as he staggered forwards and Jeannot grabbed hold of Hélène’s hand, dragging her behind him. More mortar crashed down close by and Georges stumbled to the ground, clutching his leg.
‘Get Hélène away from here,’ Georges gasped. ‘Take her back home, Jeannot, take her back home.’
‘But we can’t leave you here,’ cried Hélène, crouching down beside him ‘We can’t leave you!’
‘You must, I think my leg is broken. You must go. Tell Marcel what happened. I’ll be all right, there’re lots of people here.’
Another explosion rocked a nearby street and more walls crumbled in swirling clouds of dust.
‘Go!’ shouted Georges. ‘Go now.’
‘Come on,’ yelled Jeannot, gripping Hélène’s hand again.
Still she held back. ‘But, Georges—’
‘He’ll be all right!’ Jeannot shouted, trying to be heard over the uproar. ‘He said to go! Come on, Hélène!’ He pulled her after him, running down a twisting street, but when they reached an open square at the end of the lane she stopped short, pulling away from him and breathing heavily.
‘We should go back,’ she sobbed. ‘We can’t leave him lying on the ground.’
‘If we go back we could be killed. They’re still bombing. You think he wants that, your Georges? You think he wants you to go back instead of staying safe?’ He took her hand again and said more quietly, ‘Come on, Hélène. If he’s dead he’s dead and if he’s not they’ll find him… after and take him to the hospital. Either way there’s nothing you can do about it, and we need to get somewhere safe.’
Hélène allowed herself to be persuaded and still hand in hand, they hurried across the square and set off along a narrow path that led eventually to the river. Jeannot didn’t stop, but following a route of twists and turns led them towards the middle of the city. They could still hear the guns, could still see the glow of the fires and drifts of dark smoke lit in stripes of silver by the fitful moon.
‘This isn’t the way home,’ Hélène said suddenly, stopping again as they reached a main boulevard.
‘We ain’t going to your home,’ replied Jeannot, pulling on her hand. ‘We’re going to mine.’
‘But we can’t,’ cried Hélène in dismay. ‘Georges said to go back home and tell Marcel what had happened.’
‘Georges weren’t thinking straight,’ Jeannot told her. ‘Your house is right in the middle of that battlefield, innit? Next load of cannon balls could land on that and you’d be dead again.’
‘But Marcel won’t know—’
‘No, he won’t, but there ain’t nothing we can do about that now. Come on.’
Reluctantly, Hélène allowed him to lead her through streets and alleys until they came to one she recognised. The one with the tabac on the corner. She froze.
‘What’s the matter now?’ demanded Jeannot. ‘We’re nearly there!’
‘Not down here,’ wailed Hélène. ‘Jeannot, not down here.’
‘It’s where I live…’
‘The Gaston-man…’
‘Is dead,’ Jeannot said firmly, thinking, An’ if he ain’t he soon will be. ‘Promise you! Come on.’
He almost had to drag Hélène the length of the street, but at last they got to the steps that led down to the Bergers’ basement. Hélène hung back as Jeannot banged on the door. For a long moment she thought no one was going to answer, but then she heard the scrape of a bolt and the door eased open a few inches.
‘Tante Edith,’ Jeannot called into the sliver of light. ‘It’s me and a friend. Can we come in?’
The door opened a fraction wider and Alphonse looked out. ‘Oh, it is you,’ he said grumpily. ‘Thought you’d buggered off like last time.’ He stood back and opened the door wide enough for them to go in.
25
Marcel, following them at a distance, had been some way behind Georges and the children when the unexpected bombardment started. Within minutes the streets ahead were ablaze, the crash of falling masonry combining with the thunder of the cannon. People rushed from the buildings, desperate to escape before they were crushed in the rubble. Marcel dashed forwards, thinking only of his brother and sister, but he had no sight of them in the ensuing mêlée. It was hopeless, the cannonade lasted for another half hour, by which time the whole area was devastated. Fires were still burning and many of those who had rushed to escape both fire and bombardment lay dead or wounded in the street. As the cannon fell silent, survivors emerged from where they had taken shelter, and desperate attempts were made to bring the fires under control. Marcel, still unable to see Georges or the children, concluded that they must have escaped the onslaught and were safely in the tunnel, for Marcel knew it had to be a tunnel, wherever that was, and he joined in the battle with the flames, filling buckets from the pump in the street, gradually reducing the fires to sporadic flares. People were moving the wounded away and it was as he helped a young woman carry her injured child back to the shelter of an almost undamaged house that Marcel found Georges. He was sitting beside the blown-in front door of an apartment building. The building itself seemed to have survived the bombardment, though it was surrounded by the broken glass from its many shattered windows. Georges was sitting with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. His trousers were torn and blood was seeping from a hidden wound. His face was paper-white and his eyes closed against the pain of his damaged leg.
‘Georges?’
His eyes flew open at the sound of his brother’s voice. ‘Marcel?’ His voice was a husky thread of pain and he closed his eyes again. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Marcel said as he crouched down beside him. ‘Tell me where you’re hurt.’
‘Just my leg.’ Georges opened his eyes again and managed a brave smile. ‘Nothing much really, but I think it’s broken.’
‘Where are the children?’ Marcel asked, looking round him for any sign of them.
‘Told them to leave me here, to get away. Told Jeannot to take her back to the house and find you.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ Marcel said. ‘I was following you.’
‘Hrumph,’ puffed Georges. ‘Thought you might be. Heard someone behind me.’
‘Never mind that now,’ Marcel said. ‘We’ve got to get you home. D’you think you can walk at all?’
‘Don’t know till I try,’ Georges said. ‘Here, give me your hand and pull me up.’
Marcel, reaching down to take his hand asked, ‘Which leg?’
‘Left,’ answered Georges with a little gasp of pain. ‘Careful!’
Marcel put his arm round Georges’s body, and taking his weight, eased him up onto his uninjured leg. A swift glance at his brother’s face told him of the agony he was in, but Georges made no complaint as he struggled to keep his
balance. Marcel looked about him and from the debris he pulled a stout wooden stave. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you can use this as a crutch.’
Georges took the piece of wood and leaned on it. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’ll do.’
‘Right,’ Marcel said briskly, ‘lean on me as well and let’s get you home.’
They made extremely slow progress; Georges leaned on the stick and Marcel took as much of his weight as he could, but he knew his brother was in considerable pain. People were helping other wounded and no one paid much attention to the two men who struggled through the debris and began the long walk home. With numerous stops to rest, it took them over two hours to cover the comparatively short distance back to the Avenue Ste Anne and dawn was streaking the eastern sky as they turned into the avenue.
By the time they reached the garden gate, Georges could hardly move. His injured leg was dragging, he was light-headed, sweat poured down his cheeks and his pale face was a mask of pain.
‘Only a couple of metres to go,’ Marcel said as he swung the gate open, but for Georges it might as well have been a couple of miles. He slumped against the gatepost and in one swift movement Marcel scooped him up and carried him into the stables. Once inside he laid him on a bed of straw bales where Georges passed out.
Marcel straightened him so that he was in a more comfortable position and while he was still unconscious; removed the torn trousers to reveal the injury they hid. The leg was indeed broken, a white shard of bone now protruding through the skin. Marcel had seen worse, far worse on the battlefields of the war. A doctor could clean and set the leg without much trouble, but without a doctor he knew Georges might not even survive his apparently minor injury. Even small wounds went bad quickly.
Marcel looked down at him. Should he try and move his brother to one of the city hospitals? No, surely that would indeed be the death of him.
In which case, Marcel decided, I’ll have to get a doctor here.
He remembered his mother had always called Dr Simon to their bedsides when they were ill and Marcel wondered if he were still in Paris, or had he, too, made a hasty exit when the civil war broke out?
Children of the Siege Page 24
