‘Maman, are we really going in the van?’ Peter ran up to her, skipping with excitement.
Julie smiled. ‘Yes – well, I hope so! Uncle Jean got it going yesterday and it seems to be working. But we’ll see.’
She opened the barn door and climbed into the ancient Peugeot van. Peter hovered next to the passenger door while she turned on the ignition, took out the starting handle and, coming round to the front of the vehicle, swung energetically on the handle. After four attempts, the engine fired a couple of times; at the fifth it started.
Peter squealed with excitement and, flinging open the door, jumped in.
‘Got your school things?’
Peter nodded violently. Julie wiped her hands on her overalls, climbed in and slowly eased in the clutch. The van lurched out into the yard. Soon they were off, bumping down the lane and through the village. Julie tried to change into second gear. There was a loud grinding noise. She double de-clutched and tried again. Another rasping and clattering and then the engine settled on to a lower note: they were in second gear.
Julie sighed with relief then looked across at Peter. He was laughing uncontrollably, his little face creased with delight. She exclaimed, ‘Well I never promised to be the world’s best driver!’ And then she was laughing too.
She concentrated on the road. It was a cross-country route to Kernibon, through narrow one-track lanes. Fortunately there was no traffic – few people had petrol nowadays – and it wasn’t necessary to stop to let anyone pass. After ten minutes a stretch of misty water came into view: the Morlaix estuary. Julie looked into the distance, across the wide river to the village opposite, the one where she and Peter had landed after that terrible fishing boat journey. It all seemed a long time ago now.
Julie found the right farmhouse and drove into the yard. Eventually the farmer came out and grunted at her. She could see by his expression that he, too, had never seen a woman in trousers before. He waved her up to a shed, then opened the van doors and slid a plank of wood up into the back. He disappeared into the shed and emerged a moment later pulling an angry squealing sow on a length of rope. He pushed and shoved the pig into the van, then closed the doors. He grunted again. Julie smiled because he sounded just like his pig. Or rather, their pig, as it was now. Julie politely refused the customary invitation to coffee and, waving goodbye, restarted the van.
Peter said, ‘Maman, couldn’t we go down to the village for a minute?’
‘Goodness, why?’
‘I’ve never been there before!’
Julie stared at him, a little taken aback. Overcome with remorse, she said, ‘Of course, darling! Though we can’t be very long, otherwise we’ll be late for school.’
Peter nodded happily and they set off down a slight hill, the pig snorting and squealing in the back. The village was nothing much, a few cottages built around a haven formed by a small peninsula which protruded into the estuary. There were half a dozen fishing boats moored in the centre of the inlet. It looked as if some had just come in: men were offloading baskets into small boats floating alongside.
Julie turned the van round and they got out. She said, ‘There! Even smaller than Tregasnou!’
‘Yes!’ Peter exclaimed. He obviously thought smallness a great recommendation. ‘Look at the boats! Do they go a long, long way?’
‘No, darling. They’re not allowed to go far.’ She saw that all the boats had sails furled to their masts. With the lack of fuel fishing boats had to rely on the wind again, just as they had done a few years back, before the advent of engines.
Something caught Julie’s eye. A figure had emerged from behind a stone barn on the far side of the inlet. She glanced away, then, curious, looked at the figure again. She stiffened: there was something about him that was familiar …
The man came nearer, then turned down between two cottages and disappeared. Julie frowned with disappointment.
A moment later he was back again, pushing a vélo which he must have collected from the alleyway. Julie frowned. It looked just like Michel.
The man got on the vélo and started pedalling towards her. Julie stared, trying to catch a proper sight of his face. After a moment the man looked up into her face, and wobbled.
He had recognised her too.
It was him!
But what was he doing here? Julie couldn’t understand it.
He pedalled up to her and dismounted. His face was serious and unsmiling. He said sharply, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I might ask the same of you.’
He sighed impatiently. ‘Come on – what are you doing here?’
‘Collecting a pig. I’m a farmhand now, you know!’
He glared at her. ‘So I see!’
Peter was looking uneasy. Julie reached down and pulled him to her. ‘We were just going anyway …’
She turned and, opening the door of the van, pushed Peter up into the seat.
‘Julie—’ He came up and held the door open for her. ‘As a favour to me – don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me here.’
Julie got into the van and turned to look at him. His face was even more severe than usual and she noticed that there were deep shadows under his eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept for days.
She said, ‘All right. If that’s what you want. Though—’ She looked away.
‘Yes?’
She sighed. ‘You’re not creating trouble, are you, Michel?’
He dismissed the idea with a shake of the head. ‘I promise.’
‘In that case …’ She picked up the starting handle and opened the door to get out again, but he took the handle from her and, going round to the front of the van, cranked the engine into life.
When he brought the handle back, she suddenly remembered the scientist. She said, ‘By the way, no more news about the – delivery?’
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing new. He’ll be with you shortly, safe and sound.’
She put the van into gear. ‘Goodbye then.’
He nodded, his face tight and angry, and turned quickly away.
Peter said, ‘Mummy, why was he so cross?’
‘What? Oh darling, I don’t know. Really.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Come on, let’s get you off to school!’
But all the way there, Julie kept thinking: He’s up to something, I know he is! Oh Michel, what on earth is it now?
Chapter 24
IT WAS QUITE a farewell. Most of the senior staff had assembled. Geissler was there, of course, and Gallois.
Geissler held out his hand. ‘So, Herr Freymann, I’m sorry we are to lose you after all, but I am sure that you will enjoy your new position. A great honour, a great honour!’ On this occasion Geissler had not thought of questioning the order: it had come from the High Command itself, marked ‘Most Urgent’, and he was impressed. He smiled at David. ‘I expect you will be most happy to see Berlin again.’
‘Yes. Yes.’
Geissler inclined his head slightly in the German style. ‘Are you sure, Herr Freymann, that you prefer to walk to your quarters?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ David nodded, then smiled in the general direction of the factory personnel. But he couldn’t bring himself to look at Gallois in case guilt and conspiracy should show all over his face. He felt sick.
He turned and, grasping his briefcase tightly under his arm, walked slowly down the steps. The guard acknowledged him with a slight blink then glanced away.
David stepped on to the pavement and, his heart hammering in his ears, began the short walk down the road to the compound.
It would be any minute now. A car, probably; sweeping round the corner, opening its door, pulling him in, roaring off … David imagined the guard watching curiously, trying to work out what the car was doing, slowly realising, pulling the rifle up to his shoulder, firing at David while he was still inches from the safety of the car …
He felt his back itching and shivered. The urge to look round was almost compulsive. He resisted and kept walking, slowly, to give them time
.
He came to the access road that led down the side of the factory. He paused at the kerb, looked to left and right, stepped down and crossed the road.
Now, surely! He reached the opposite pavement and went even slower. But it was difficult walking slowly. He swayed and almost lost his balance. His legs were still weak.
The compound gates were getting closer now, the guards almost visible. David began to worry: it would be very risky to leave it any longer.
He paused and leant against the wire fence, as if he were resting. He listened carefully, but the road behind him was silent: no engine noises, no cars. Nothing stirred.
They weren’t coming.
He moved away from the fence and began walking again. Almost immediately the guard post came into sight. The uniformed figures stared at him, their faces uninterested and bored. He turned in through the gates and walked past them, as he had a hundred times.
They hadn’t come.
David went automatically towards the hut, opened the door and walked up the corridor to his cubicle at the end. He sat on the bed and stared at the wall, the briefcase still tucked under his arm.
The message had said they would come for him. He tried very hard to think how they would do it. Perhaps they’d come later. But how? Getting him out of here would be impossible.
Perhaps never, then. In which case he’d been deceived. He thought: I’m no good at this sort of thing. I don’t understand.
He wasn’t due to leave for Berlin until early morning, at seven. He’d wait until then, ready dressed, just in case. In the meantime he was tired; the walk, like any physical exertion nowadays, had tired him out. He lay down.
After a while he sat up and, opening his briefcase, took out a sandwich of bread and cheese which he’d kept specially for the journey. He ate it slowly, chewing each mouthful several times. He closed the briefcase carefully, lay down again, and dozed.
Much later he woke suddenly and pulled himself up. He guessed it was late, probably about one or two in the morning. Something had woken him. A sound. He got unsteadily to his feet and went to the window. There was a moon and the outlines of the buildings were just visible in the pale light. Nothing moved.
He was turning to go back to bed when he felt the floor shudder. He put his hand up to the wall to steady himself. A flash of light flickered against the walls of the cubicle. He turned back to the window, confused.
A low rumble sounded from far away, the window shook, another flash of light illuminated the night sky.
An air raid. They were common enough. Only this time the Germans hadn’t had time to sound the siren.
There was another flash, much closer this time. Then orange and yellow lights flickered against the buildings: an incendiary. David frowned: there was something strange about all this. What was it? Yes – he’d heard no planes. Usually you could hear the drone of the bombers as they passed overhead. There were no searchlights either.
A siren sounded. It was from close by. Inside the hut there was a deafening noise of banging doors and running feet and shouting men. A moment later the guards streamed out of the hut, running in the direction of the flickering lights.
David opened the window and stuck his head out. There was another sound now, a drumming, as if people were beating sticks against a wall. Angry people. And there were voices, too, a thousand voices shouting and yelling while they beat the sticks against the walls.
It was the workers, the Poles. They were trying to break out.
David shook his head and cried, ‘Oh no! Oh no!’ and beat his fist against the wall. What were they trying to achieve? What did they hope to gain? It would mean death for many of them; death. In despair he murmured again, ‘No! No!’
He froze. Something caught his eye: a movement away to the right, in the shadow of one of the buildings. A figure, running stealthily in a crouched position.
David pulled his head back inside the window and watched, motionless. The figure paused in the darkness of the nearest building, then ran again. He was coming straight for David. David felt a stab of fear and pulled himself back into the room.
The figure disappeared beneath his line of sight. Then, after a few seconds, a hand suddenly appeared over the sill. A head followed. David pressed himself against the wall.
A voice. ‘Freymann?’
David stared at the silhouette of the head and whispered, ‘Yes.’
‘Quick! Climb out and follow me! Quick!’
David fumbled for his briefcase and, tucking it under his arm, approached the window. He said breathlessly, ‘Are you – from …?’
‘Shut up. No time for that. Come now!’
David looked at the height of the sill and said, ‘I can’t.’
The figure hissed, ‘You must!’
David nodded and pushed the briefcase through the window. It disappeared rapidly. He got his left foot up onto the sill and pushed his leg out. It was impossible to get a second leg up: the frame was too narrow. He pulled his body up onto the sill and felt the window-catch dig into his thigh. He levered himself safely to one side of it and, sitting astride the sill, rested for a moment, breathing heavily.
‘Come on!’ The dark figure was pulling at his sleeve.
‘All right! All right! I’m doing my best!’ David looked down: it was a long drop, a man’s height at least, and he only had one leg to land on. ‘You’ll have to catch me, otherwise I’ll fall.’ The figure seemed to nod and David levered himself out until he was hanging from the window, his right leg still over the sill. He tried to pull the leg out, but some of his weight was on it and it wouldn’t come.
‘Have you got me?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
Only one thing to do, then. Let go.
He felt himself falling, body first, his left foot nowhere near the ground. A hand clutched at his arm and twisted him round. His right foot met the ground, followed shortly by his shoulder and his hip. He felt his head shoot back to hit the concrete.
He staggered to his feet, shaking slightly, and brushed himself down.
The man had hold of his arm and David found himself being pulled along behind. The man stopped at the end of the building and David bumped into him. Then the man was off again, running faster, his hand still grasping David’s sleeve.
David ran as best he could, but he was already breathing hard. His legs felt like rubber and wouldn’t do what was required of them. For some reason he couldn’t swing his right arm either.
They approached the perimeter fence at the eastern side of the compound. With alarm David wondered why they were going that way. There was no way out here.
Normally the fence was brilliantly lit, but now it was in darkness. They stopped at the side of a small shed and waited. The man was listening, as tense as a cat. David put his head against the wall and tried to regain his breath.
Suddenly they were off again. The fence loomed up in front of them. The man looked up and down the length of the fence, pulled David a short way to the right, then dropped to his hands and knees. David saw that there was a gaping hole in the wire. The man hissed ‘Down!’ and David got on to his knees.
The man threw the briefcase through then put a hand behind David and pushed. David crawled through. The man came quickly after, picked up David’s case and pulled him to his feet. He grabbed David’s sleeve again and then they were running across open ground to the dark wall of a warehouse. They stopped, David gasped for breath.
Another pull. David said, ‘Please! Please! Not so fast. I can’t go so fast!’ The man slowed down a little. They skirted three more buildings and came to another fence. This time there was no hole. David eyed it apprehensively. But then they reached a gate and the gate was open and they were through into a road.
A lorry was parked in the road. The man took David round to the tailgate. It was closed. David breathed, ‘I can’t … I can’t …’
The man reached down and, grasping David’s foot, heaved. David sprawled over the tailgate, unable to pul
l himself up. The man pushed again and David landed head first in the lorry’s load, which smelt strongly of cabbage.
‘Hide yourself!’
David panted, ‘What?’
‘Hide yourself under the vegetables!’
‘… under?’
There was a thud as something landed beside David in the cabbages. ‘Your case. Goodbye.’
There was silence. David took hold of the briefcase and crawled slowly over the vegetables to the far end of the lorry. How did one bury oneself in a load of cabbages? Painstakingly he began to remove the cabbages one by one until he had made a hollow in them, then he lay down, his case at his side, and pulled the vegetables back over himself.
It wasn’t difficult to lie still – at that moment it was all he’d ever wanted.
Five minutes passed and the lorry hadn’t moved. He wished they would hurry. He could hear the sounds of activity in the compound and the docks: trucks roaring back and forth, the distant sound of shouting and the occasional report of a rifle shot. It must be the Poles they were shooting at.
But why wasn’t the lorry moving? Come on! Come on! If they didn’t get going soon, they’d never get away!
But the lorry didn’t move. After half an hour David realised it wasn’t going to. Not for a long time. Perhaps not until daylight. He wished they’d told him.
Eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep, waking frequently. Finally he saw a tinge of grey light through the gaps in the cabbages above his head. He drifted off again.
Suddenly there was a loud crash from immediately behind David’s head. He jumped, his heart racing. Someone started whistling and the next moment there was a loud whirring and the lorry’s engine burst into life.
The whistler broke into song. ‘I’m dreaming of you, my love, wherever you may be …’
The lorry stopped and started a few times. Once David heard the driver talking to someone, but then they were on their way again. The singer began to whistle once more, but softly, and the drone of the wheels fell to a steady hum.
*
There was silence. David realised that the lorry had stopped and the engine had been turned off. He waited, tense.
Night Sky Page 45
