Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  Georges was still unconscious, if he went now to fetch Dr Simon perhaps he could come at once and, Marcel thought, set the leg before Georges returned to the world.

  Suddenly he remembered the two children. He had been so taken up with getting Georges home that for a moment he’d forgotten them, forgotten that they were supposed to be back here, waiting for him. Then he realised that the gate had been closed and locked, but surely that would have presented no problem to a boy like Jeannot. He’d have been up and over in a trice. So, where were they?

  Georges gave a moan and the sound brought Marcel back to the matter in hand. He made up his mind. He would go and fetch Dr Simon and bring him back here. While he was out he’d leave the gate unlocked so that the children could get in when they got back. If they got back. The thought slipped into his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. Of course they’d get back, Jeannot was no fool and he was probably lying low somewhere until it was full daylight and they could walk the streets without fear of being questioned. Marcel wondered if he could trust Jeannot to look after Hélène, but for the moment he had to. He did not know where she was and so could do nothing for her; his present responsibility was Georges.

  When he reached the doctor’s house, it seemed to be shut up, but when there was no answer to his hammering on the front door he went round and banged on the back door. The windows were curtained, but he thought he could see a glimmer of light inside and he continued to knock until at last he heard movement indoors, and a reedy voice called, ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Marcel St Clair,’ Marcel called back. ‘I’m looking for Dr Simon. My brother’s been injured in the bombing and I need his help.’

  There was the rattle of a chain and the thud of bolts being drawn back and when the door opened he was faced by an elderly woman, a nightcap on her head and a shawl flung over her nightgown. Marcel recognised her as Madame Yvette, the doctor’s housekeeper. She, however, did not recognise him and at the sight of a man in the uniform of the National Guard, she tried to slam the door again. Marcel was too quick for her, putting his boot in the gap and saying, ‘Madame Yvette, is the doctor here? I need his help.’

  ‘You’re not Marcel St Clair,’ cried the woman. ‘I know what he looks like, and it’s not like you.’

  Marcel ignored this and said, ‘My brother Georges has been injured in the bombing. I need the doctor to come to him at once. Please tell him I’m here and I need his help.’

  At that moment the doctor appeared behind his housekeeper and said, ‘Who is it, Yvette?’

  Before Yvette could answer, Marcel explained about Georges.

  ‘Broken leg, you say?’

  ‘Yes, it looks pretty bad.’

  Dr Simon said he would come at once and having checked his bag for everything he might need, they hurried together back to the house. On the way the doctor said, ‘I knew you were both in the army, but I heard you were missing.’

  ‘I was for a while…’ began Marcel.

  ‘And now you’re back,’ finished the doctor. ‘And in disguise, too. I won’t ask what secret mission you’re on.’

  For a split second Marcel didn’t understand what the doctor was saying, and then it dawned on him. Dr Simon was assuming he was still in the French army and only dressed as a guard as a disguise. He decided not to enlighten him.

  When they reached the stable, Dr Simon went at once to Georges. He had regained consciousness and was lying on his bed of straw wondering where Marcel was; if he’d simply deserted him. And the children? Where were they? He asked as soon as Marcel appeared behind the doctor.

  ‘I’ll tell you about them when the doctor’s finished with you,’ Marcel said, not wanting to discuss that topic in public. ‘The important thing now is to get you patched up.’

  Dr Simon took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and looking down at his patient, said, ‘This is going to hurt like hell, but it has to be done or you may never walk again.’ He turned to Marcel, ‘Perhaps you could bring me some clean water and then come and hold your brother still.’ He got to work to clean the wound and then, retrieving splints from his bag, he turned his attention to the broken bone. As he began to manipulate them, Georges passed out again, leaving the doctor free to align the bones and bind them in place.

  ‘I’m afraid he’ll always have a limp,’ he said to Marcel when he’d finished, ‘but he should be able to walk again, perhaps with a stick.’ He looked up and went on, ‘Now, who’s here to look after him?’

  ‘No one,’ Marcel replied. ‘My parents are still in the country, thank God. The servants have gone with them and I have to return to my unit.’

  ‘I could recommend a good woman who might come and look after him,’ suggested the doctor.

  ‘The problem is,’ Marcel said cautiously, ‘that this place is… being used. The army… you know?’

  ‘Of course,’ the doctor said hurriedly, ‘I understand.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘If we could move him to my house, just until he’s getting better, I’m sure Madame Yvette would be happy to look after him and that way I, too, can keep an eye on his progress.’

  Later that day, two men with a stretcher came and carried Georges to the doctor’s house. There was still no sign of the children, so Marcel left the gate unlocked for them. He needed to return to his unit, manning the barricades hastily built to block the streets when the French army finally broke in. Marcel had done what he could. The children had vanished, he could do no more for them, Georges was in good hands and would be out of the final battle, a battle Marcel knew the Communards were going to lose. He doubted he was going to survive the fighting and there was one more thing he wanted to do before he died. On his way to his unit he went to the tenement Jeannot had shown him. The front door opened to his touch and Marcel walked into the hallway without knocking.

  ‘Gaston’s rooms is on the left when you go in. He may not be in them rooms, but watch it, he’s got a cellar which is where he kept Hélène. Watch out for his wife too, if she’s still there,’ he’d advised. ‘She’ll stick a knife in you, soon as look at you.’

  The door to his left was ajar, as if someone was expected.

  Well, thought Marcel as he drew his pistol, he can expect me now, and again without knocking, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room stank, a formidable combination of faeces, urine and rotting flesh. There was a man on a cot in one corner, lying propped up against a pillow and covered with a blood-stained piece of blanket that concealed his legs. Much of the smell emanated from him. His eyes flew open as Marcel came in, staring at him and the gun which was pointing straight at him.

  If he hadn’t known who he was looking for, Marcel wouldn’t have recognised Gaston Durand. Pale as death, there was very little left of the bullying man who was prepared to sacrifice his comrades to achieve his own freedom, or make use of a girl of eleven for his own enjoyment. His face was shrivelled, his beard thin and grey against the grey pallor of his skin, his eyes red-rimmed and watery, and there was a drool of saliva leaking from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Well, Durand,’ said Marcel, staring with revulsion at this wreck of a man. ‘Have you been expecting me?’

  ‘St Clair,’ he drawled. ‘Come to kill me, have you?’ He sucked lips in over almost toothless gums. ‘Had a lot of fun with your sister, I did. Did she tell you? Didn’t always do what she was told, mind, but she learned… in the end.’ For a moment he stiffened as pain shot through him, the sepsis working its relentless way through his body. ‘Go on then,’ he challenged. ‘Shoot me! Do me a favour.’

  The man shrank back as Marcel cocked the gun, but didn’t fire it.

  ‘Chicken, are yer?’ taunted Durand. ‘Afraid to pull the trigger on a helpless man? If someone had done to my sister what I done to yours, I’d shoot him like a dog.’

  ‘Whereas I won’t be goaded into committing cold-blooded murder, like you,’ returned Marcel coolly. ‘For what you did to my sister I’d rather let you die a long,
lingering and very painful death. Why should I end your suffering? Whoever did this to you, did well.’

  ‘Paid for it with his life, he did,’ jeered Gaston. ‘I got the last laugh!’

  ‘Rot in hell,’ retorted Marcel, tucking the pistol back into his belt. He had no need of it now, Jeannot had done the job for him.

  As he walked back down the steps to the street he could still hear Durand screeching, ‘I’m the one laughing, ain’t I? I’m the one laughing!’

  26

  Alphonse stepped aside to let them in and Jeannot led Hélène into the basement apartment. Edith was sitting by the tiny fire and seeing Jeannot she jumped to her feet.

  ‘Jeannot!’ she cried. ‘Where have you been? We were so worried when you didn’t come home again.’ Then, as if noticing Hélène for the first time, her eyes narrowed and she said, ‘And who’s this? Why have you brought her here?’

  Before Jeannot could answer, Hélène announced, ‘I’m Hélène St Clair, and I don’t know why he’s brought me here. I want to go home.’ It was not an auspicious start to their introduction.

  ‘This is Hélène,’ Jeannot said, scowling at her to shut up. ‘Used to work for her family. She’s all right… most of the time.’

  ‘But why have you brought her here?’ repeated Edith.

  ‘We was caught in the bombing,’ Jeannot explained. ‘Had to get off the streets double quick. Nowhere else to go, and,’ he added winningly, ‘I knew you’d take us in, Tante Edith.’ He turned back to Hélène. ‘This is Monsieur and Madame Berger. Tante Edith and Oncle Alphonse. They’re kind people. They took me in, in the siege.’

  He gave her a nudge and Hélène held out her hand and said, ‘How d’you do, madame?’

  Edith looked at her suspiciously before giving her hand a brief shake and turning her attention back to Jeannot. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.

  ‘No, we’re both all right, but Hélène’s brother was injured, he hurt his leg. He told us to run and we did, so we don’t know what’s happened to him.’

  ‘He told us to go home,’ said Hélène.

  ‘So, why didn’t you?’ asked Alphonse suspiciously. ‘If he told you to go there, why didn’t you?’

  ‘Too dangerous,’ answered Jeannot cheerfully. ‘She lives right in the middle of the sixteenth district, it’s the target area. House could be bombed out an’ us with it.’ He gave Edith his most charming smile and said, ‘We can stay here for a while, can’t we, Tante Edith? Just till things settle down a bit? Don’t worry about food an’ that, I’ll see you right.’

  Edith sighed. ‘I suppose you can,’ she agreed reluctantly, ‘but only for a few days until the bombing’s stopped.’ She nodded at Jeannot. ‘You can stay as long as you want to, helping us out, but not her, we don’t need another mouth to feed.’ Hélène flushed red at this, but at a look from Jeannot she held her tongue.

  There was an awkward silence before Jeannot said, ‘That’s settled then. Don’t worry about us, Tante Edith, we won’t get in your way. We’ll sleep by the fire in here.’ He looked round hopefully. ‘Anything for breakfast?’ he asked. Seeing the anxious look on Alphonse’s face, he added, ‘I’ll go out and find something else as soon as we’ve finished.’

  ‘Are they really your aunt and uncle?’ Hélène asked Jeannot in a whisper as they drank coffee and ate bread with a smear of jam.

  Jeannot shook his head. ‘Nah! Course not! Just what I call ’em. Told you before, I ain’t got no family. I’m on my own. But we need them now, so just try and keep on the right side of them, all right?’

  After they’d eaten, Jeannot left Hélène with the Bergers and set out in search of food. As he made his way through the streets he could hear the relentless pounding of the guns and they seemed to be getting louder. The war, he realised, had come closer.

  Pointless going to the market if that part of the city was under fire, he thought, ’cos nobody’ll be selling nothing today. ’Cept perhaps some of the small shops. It’d be worth keeping his eye open.

  He changed direction and headed to his usual haunts. There was unusual activity in the streets and several times he ducked into a doorway or branched off into an alley to avoid not only the National Guards, but ordinary citizens scurrying from place to place, heads down, eyes averted. He would go and find Paul and the Monkey, he decided, and discover what had been happening while he’d been cooped up with Hélène in the stable. Things certainly seemed to have hotted up. Jeannot thought of the bombardment they’d escaped the previous night and wondered briefly what had happened to Georges. Was he still alive or had he died in the street? Well, he shrugged, not his problem.

  He found his mates hiding in the old cellar they shared and crawled in beside them.

  ‘What’s going on then?’ he asked. ‘Something big, by the sound of it. You been out to see?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied the Monkey, ‘and came back sharpish, I can tell you.’

  ‘The army’s in,’ Paul told him. ‘Heard some treacherous bugger opened the gate at Pointe du Jour and let them in. There’s soldiers everywhere. Need to steer clear of them. They’ve been streaming in since dawn.’

  ‘Where you been, anyway?’ demanded Monkey. ‘Ain’t seen you for days and then you turn up outta the blue an’ ask what’s going on! What d’yer think’s going on? City’s invaded, that’s what!’

  ‘I been holed up in a nice comfortable stable,’ Jeannot said. ‘We could hear the guns, but not close, not till now. Anyway, I thought I’d come out and find out what’s what.’

  ‘Mad to be out there,’ Paul said. ‘You was lucky you wasn’t shot. There’s National Guards and soldiers everywhere. They don’t care who they kill. They been shooting anyone what gets caught in their way. We ain’t going out now.’

  ‘I can’t stay here,’ Jeannot said. ‘I’m getting food.’

  ‘Getting food? Then you’re the only one, mate. Anyone with any sense is keeping their head down. If the government lot don’t get you, the National Guards will. Saw them in the street this morning early. Prodding folks with bayonets, they was, making people go and work on the barricades.’

  ‘Bit late for barricades, ain’t it?’ Monkey said. ‘Saw them building one with carts and waggons and paving stones and stuff. That ain’t going to keep the army out, is it?’

  ‘Waste of time, if you ask me,’ agreed Paul. ‘Just going to blow their way through that shit, ain’t they.’

  ‘Good time to be picking up a few bits, though,’ pointed out Jeannot, who always had an eye for a chance. ‘Empty houses. Stuff lying about asking to be took.’

  ‘You can take it, mate,’ said Paul. ‘I’m like Monkey. I’m going to keep my head down here. May go hungry for a few days… done that before. Don’t kill yer, not like a bullet from an army rifle. They’re putting sharp shooters on the roofs now, picking off people; just use anyone for target practice, they do.’

  Jeannot listened to all they said but eventually left them safe in their cellar. He went back onto the streets. He couldn’t stay there and miss all the excitement; he was determined to see for himself. What he saw amazed him. The artillery had finally punched huge gaps in the city walls and government troops were pouring through in their hundreds. He darted along through the back doubles, hiding in alleys, in deserted courtyards and behind walls, astonished at the damage being inflicted on the city, inflicted by both sides. Paul and the Monkey had been right. All over the city bells were ringing, the Commune’s call to the citizens of Paris; to man the barricades, to keep the enemy at bay. Citizens were answering the call, too. He saw a group of women armed with rifles, carrying the red flag of the Commune, marching to one of the barricades, and ducked down behind a collapsed wall. He’d heard the women were some of the worst and he wasn’t going to mess with them.

  You got to be extremely careful not to get taken up by either side, he thought, as he crouched behind the wall ready to make a dash for the basement yard opposite. It was then that he felt it, something hard pressed into hi
s ribs. A gun barrel.

  ‘Now then, whippersnapper,’ said a voice. ‘We could use a likely lad like you. Come on, there’s a barricade to build.’ The owner of the voice, a large man in a National Guard’s uniform, grasped him by the ear and propelled him unwillingly round a corner and into the next street where he found there was feverish activity, constructing a barrier to block the main road. Two heavy carts had been laid end to end across the street and beyond them several men were at work lifting paving stones and cobbles and carrying them to add strength and weight to the barricade. Beams, taken from the ruins of nearby buildings, were being heaved up to make another layer of defence.

  ‘Right, lad, get stuck in here,’ instructed his captor. ‘There’s some sandbags over there what wants to be brought here. If they’re too heavy to carry, just drag them. Look sharp, we’ve plenty more of these to build.’

  Jeannot moved away to where another lad was heaving at some bags of earth. He cast an eye backwards, but saw at once that there was no chance of running off. The National Guard who’d collared him was watching, rifle loaded and in hand.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the boy.

  ‘Jeannot. Got you too, did they? What’s yer name?’

  ‘André,’ the boy said. ‘Watch out for that big bloke. He’s real mean.’

  Together they heaved at the heavy earth-filled bags. Gradually a wall was built across the road and on the top, behind a parapet of beams, was a firing step.

  As soon as it was done several National Guards climbed up and settled down, rifles protruding over the top, preparing to hold the army at bay.

  Watching them, Jeannot wondered if Hélène’s other brother, guardsman Marcel, was manning a barricade like this.

  Well, rather him than me, thought Jeannot as he and André were gathered up and moved on to another street where a similar barricade was under construction. Here they were set to filling the sacks, digging into the compacted earth beneath the raised paving slabs and shovelling it into the bags. To the background of thundering guns and the rattle of small arms fire, they worked under the watchful eye of the guard who had captured Jeannot. After another hour they were given some bread and strips of dried meat to eat; a pitcher of water was passed round from which they all drank copious draughts, their throats dry from the dust of their own efforts. But there was no chance of escape and Jeannot realised that he should have listened to his mates. He had made a dreadful mistake in risking the streets. The group of citizens who, like him, had been press-ganged into building defences was herded away at the end of each job, the whole time under the watchful eye – and the rifle – of their captor. As they began to move on from the second barricade, André broke ranks, making a dash for the shelter of a narrow lane that led off from the street. One of the guards raised his rifle and fired a single shot and André pitched forward, arms flung wide, as he collapsed to the ground. For a moment the other workers stared at the motionless body, but at a roar from the guard, they moved on, leaving the lifeless boy to the mercy of the city rats. No one else considered making a break for it. Even before seeing André’s ill-considered dash, and the speed with which he’d been dealt with, Jeannot had decided against an effort to escape. He would wait until it was dark and then if the chance arose, he’d slip away.