by Fiona Valpy
The younger of the two brothers put up his hand, as if answering a question in class at school. ‘They ate it from the flowers and then they pooed it into the honeycomb.’
‘Eugh! That doesn’t sound very appetising.’ His mother looked askance at her crust of bread.
Eliane laughed. ‘Almost right, but not exactly. They do collect nectar from flowers by sucking it up with their tongues; but they store it in a special stomach called their honey-stomach, which is separate from the one they use for digesting food. When they have a stomach-full they fly back to the hive. Then they pass the runny nectar, using their tongues, from one bee to the next and they all chew it to make it into sticky honey. It’s food for all the bees in the hive really, but luckily they are very generous and they make extra honey, which we can collect and spread on our bread.’
‘Sounds like they’re really good at working together,’ said Madame Fournier.
‘They are. Just as we will be on the train. One bee on its own isn’t very strong, but when they stick together and become a community they are strong enough to survive the harshest winter and a fearsome enough force to scare away the most determined predators.’
Just then, borne on the wind that blustered along the tracks, they heard the distant rumble of the approaching train. Eliane picked Blanche up and held her tight. ‘Ready for our big adventure, ma princesse?’ Blanche smiled and nodded, but Eliane could feel the little girl’s body shivering with a mixture of cold and fear.
A sudden image of Mathieu’s face flashed into Eliane’s mind. Was he out there, somewhere, protecting the railway? Had he watched this very train go past and been satisfied that he was doing his job well, seeing another transport safely through, little knowing that he was sending it onwards to where she and Blanche waited? Would he have cared if he’d known who the shivering, helpless passengers were who were about to embark on this terrifying journey?
Bile rose in her throat at the thought. And yet, she found herself wishing that he was there; longing for his reassuring touch, his strong, silent presence that would keep them all safe. She shook her head, trying to clear it of these confusing feelings. Focus, she told herself. Mathieu can’t help you now. You’ve got to stay strong and get through this.
As the train pulled alongside the platform, armed soldiers appeared from the station buildings, stubbing out cigarettes and pulling on greatcoats. Instinctively, the group of civilians huddled a little closer together. They watched in silence as the train pulled up to the platform and then, from a siding, an open flatcar was manoeuvred into position in front of the engine. A handrail had been added to the front of the car, but it was otherwise open-sided.
‘Allez-y!’ One of the soldiers gestured with his rifle that they should climb up the ramp that had been positioned beside the car. ‘And don’t even think about trying to jump off. I’ll be travelling with the driver and I have orders to shoot anyone who tries to escape.’
‘Let’s organise ourselves a bit,’ said Madame Fournier. ‘If some of the larger adults stand with their backs against the handrail and we put the children on the inside that will shield them from the worst of the wind.’ She reversed so that her ample behind was wedged against the rail and her husband came to stand beside her, taking the hands of the two little boys to steady them on the ride.
Eliane stood in the centre at the front, her back to the tracks that stretched ahead of the train through the hills and the woods and across the wide bridges spanning the rivers between them and Bordeaux, some two hours distant. She held Blanche tight and wrapped the sides of her coat around the little girl to protect her from the chill of the wind and try to make her feel a little safer. In the gathering dusk, the scarlet headscarf stood out like a lantern on the prow of a ship.
With a slamming of carriage doors the soldiers boarded the train, and then the sound of the idling engine began to grow louder and more purposeful. With a hiss, the brakes were released and then, with slow menace, the train began to move.
‘Hold on tight,’ Madame Fournier called to the children. ‘Courage, mes enfants! Our adventure begins!’
Gustave drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as he sat in the queue at a roadblock on the bridge at Port Sainte-Foy. It appeared to be no more than a routine delay – the soldiers were simply checking papers and then waving people across – but some drivers seemed to take an inordinate length of time to locate their paperwork. Gustave ground his teeth and muttered, ‘Come on; you’ve had ten minutes sitting here to get everything ready.’ His own papers were on the passenger seat, waiting to be presented.
When his turn came, the soldier scrutinised the documents and gave Gustave a long, hard look. ‘Reason for your journey at this time of day?’ he barked.
‘Final delivery of flour to the bakers over there. They’ve run out and need some urgently for la Toussaint tomorrow.’ The soldier checked the back of the truck and, finding only a couple of sacks of flour, nodded abruptly and waved him across.
He drove slowly across the bridge, careful not to give away the fact that he was in a hurry. But as soon as he got to the other side, he revved the engine and swerved through the darkening streets of Sainte-Foy. On the far side of the town, he took a road through the vineyards that twisted and climbed into the hills, the truck swaying and jolting as he accelerated as hard as he could on the narrow country lane. He pulled up alongside a rough wooden cross, carved with a scallop shell, which marked an intersection on the pilgrim way. From a copse of trees nearby, a shadowy figure emerged and ran towards the truck.
‘Sorry it took me so long. I was held up at the roadblock on the bridge,’ Gustave said.
‘You did well, considering,’ Jacques replied as he climbed into the passenger seat. ‘I was worried that you might not make it. We should still have time. But we need to go as fast as possible.’
‘Where to?’ Gustave asked.
‘The railway bridge across the river, just before Le Pont de la Beauze.’
Gustave nodded grimly, put the truck in gear and accelerated along the lane again.
‘Cut through the vineyard here,’ Jacques pointed, and Gustave hauled on the steering wheel, swerving into a rough farm track. They bounced along the tractor-rutted clay, passing between the recently harvested vines, and rejoined the country road on the other side. The river glinted ahead of them as a harvest moon began to rise, impossibly large and honey-gold. Ragged clouds, frayed and ripped by the blustering wind, scudded across its face. It was easy to imagine that the souls of the dead could be abroad tonight.
‘Pull in here.’ Jacques gestured to a partially concealed track that disappeared into the woods at the side of the road.
Gustave killed the engine and the two men leaped from the truck; Jacques then led the way through the trees to where the railway line ran on an embankment as it led up to the brick arches of the bridge that spanned the Dordogne river. At first, the tracks were silent. But then they began to resonate with a faint hum. A train was approaching.
Up ahead, Gustave thought he glimpsed the brief flicker of a torch, which was immediately extinguished. They ran, crashing through the undergrowth, too late for caution now.
Gustave panted behind Jacques, a stitch stabbing at his side; the thought of Eliane and Blanche on the train and Yves beneath the bridge carried his feet onwards in a headlong dash.
A shot rang out. And, almost simultaneously, Jacques shouted something. And then he tripped, falling forward, his momentum carrying him into the arms of Yves, who had emerged from the group of men hiding beneath the arch and begun to run towards them through the trees.
The railway tracks hummed louder now, and the distinct rumble of the train was carried to them on a gust of wind.
‘Stop!’ shouted Gustave, with the last of his breath. ‘Eliane and Blanche – they’re on that train. Stop!’
There seemed to be a flurry of activity beneath the bridge and then he found himself alongside Yves and Jacques on the damp leaf mould of the w
oodland floor.
He huddled beside them, gasping, as the rumbling of the tracks grew to a roar.
Just then, the clouds parted and the moon’s face shone through, illuminating the train.
The group of men crouching beside the bridge caught a glimpse of a red silk headscarf, fluttering in the wind, and a child’s pale face, pinched with fear and cold. And then, with a furious rush of wind and noise, the train flashed by and rumbled on, across the river towards Bordeaux.
‘Mon Dieu, that was close!’ Gustave turned to Yves and Jacques with relief.
But Yves didn’t look up. He was holding Jacques, leaning over him to undo the buttons of his coat. As he pulled aside the coarse serge, a dark stain spread across the front of Jacques’ shirt.
And where the moonlight shone on it, Gustave could see it was the same vivid scarlet as Eliane’s silk scarf.
At last, the train began to slow as it wound its way across the broad expanse of the Gironde estuary. The city of Bordeaux was dark in the blackout, but the moon shimmered and danced on the wide waters, illuminating the pale façade of the city’s sweep of waterfront buildings as well as the white faces of the group on the flatcar.
‘Nearly there now,’ Eliane called to the others. The rushing wind and deafening noise of the engine obscured her words, but they saw her smile and it gave them the strength they needed to hang on for the last few minutes with their frozen fingers and aching arms.
When the train pulled in to the Gare Saint-Jacques at Bordeaux, the carriage doors opened and German soldiers streamed out on to the platform. They busied themselves unloading wooden crates of ammunition and weapons from the freight cars, piling up the arms and equipment ready for reloading onto waiting army trucks.
The little group from Coulliac hesitated where they stood on the flatcar, frozen with the combination of their fear, cold and noise-numbed nerves, unsure what to do next.
Amid the shouts and clangs that echoed around the station, the elder of the two brothers asked, ‘Do we have to do the journey in the opposite direction too?’ Silent tears began to roll down Blanche’s chilled, wind-roughened cheeks at the thought of having to repeat the ordeal.
Eliane looked around, rubbing the child’s arms to comfort her and to try to get the circulation going again as she searched for someone she could ask. And then, in the middle of all the chaos and din, she caught sight of a familiar face.
‘Oberleutnant Farber!’ she called.
He picked his way towards them, his eyes fixed on the scarlet beacon of Eliane’s headscarf as he stepped around groups of soldiers and stacks of wooden crates.
He held out his arms to take Blanche from her. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It’s time to take you home.’
He helped the group down from the flatcar and led them out of a side exit to where an army truck, similar to the one that had transported them to Bergerac, stood waiting. The driver hopped down from his cab, grinding his cigarette out on the cobbles with the heel of his boot, and helped lift the children into the back. Once again, it took the assistance of both men for Monsieur Fournier to manage to clamber up, so stiff and painful were his arthritic limbs after the ordeal of the journey. Taking her seat beside him in the back of the truck, his wife tried to warm his gnarled hands, rubbing them between her own to ease his suffering.
He smiled at her and kissed her cheek, saying, ‘We made it, thank God.’
Exhausted, and lulled by the swaying of the truck as they were driven past the vineyards of Bordeaux back towards Coulliac, some members of the group fell asleep. But Eliane sat watching over them, her nerves still too frayed to be able to relax her guard until they were back safely.
At last, the truck jolted to a halt and Oberleutnant Farber opened the canvas flap at the rear of the truck. ‘Eliane, you’re home. We’re at the moulin.’ He smiled at the others, his teeth gleaming faintly in the moonlit darkness. ‘Not long for the rest of you now. We’ll be at Coulliac in a few minutes.’
He took Eliane’s hand to help her descend. She took off her headscarf and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat, shaking her hair free so that it fell in a sheet of pale gold over her shoulders where the moonlight caught it. Then the officer reached for Blanche, lifting the sleeping child down into Eliane’s arms.
They didn’t speak, but he squeezed her arm before he turned to get back into the cab of the truck beside the driver.
She carried Blanche along the track towards the mill house, limping slightly on her aching, stiffened legs. Blanche whimpered in her sleep and Eliane hushed her, saying softly, ‘It’s alright, ma princesse. We’re home now.’
As they approached, a gleam of light escaped from a corner of the blacked-out kitchen window. She’d lost track of the time, but knew it must have been well past midnight, and the tightness of fear that had constricted her heart for the past few hours eased a little at the thought of her parents sitting up, waiting for them to return.
She tried to push open the door but, unusually, it was bolted from the inside. ‘Maman! Papa!’ she called as she knocked. ‘It’s me, Eliane.’
There was a flurry of activity from inside the kitchen and Gustave flung the door open. ‘Eliane! Blanche! Oh, thank God you are both safe.’ He enfolded them in his arms, which were still strong, despite being wasted with hunger, and she allowed herself to relax against the comforting solidity of her father, closing her eyes for a moment as she gave thanks.
But then she sensed that there was something different about the air in the room. Instead of the comforting smells of home-cooking and drying herbs, she breathed in a strange scent: the fug of dried sweat, underlain by the scents of wild thyme and pine needles; and she looked past Gustave to find that the kitchen was filled with people.
It took a moment or two for her to make sense of the scene before her. Three heavily bearded men stood by the range, their clothes ragged and dirty. Three rifles were piled haphazardly on the kitchen table. At the sight of Eliane, one of the men took a step forward, an expression of anguish crumpling his weather-beaten features. He reached out a hand towards her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and his voice cracked. ‘I thought it was the Nazis . . .’ He dropped his hand again and stood, silent, alongside his companions, the three men forming a tableau of sorrow. And then she realised that they were watching another tableau before them on the floor of the kitchen.
Lisette and Yves knelt on the hard stone flags and they both turned their faces towards Eliane. Instead of smiles of relief, though, their expressions were pale masks of horrified helplessness.
And then she saw that they were kneeling beside a prone body, bloody cloths in their hands, as they tried desperately to staunch the flow of lifeblood from Jacques Lemaître’s abdomen.
She thrust Blanche into Gustave’s arms and sank to her knees beside her mother and her brother. They both reached out their arms to try to comfort her.
‘Jack,’ she whispered, reaching for the lifeless-looking fingers of his hand, the skin already becoming waxy in the light of the oil lamp.
His eyes flickered for a moment and then opened, clouded at first, but slowly clearing to the blue of a summer sky as they focused on her face and he smiled.
He tried to speak, but instead his throat rattled and he coughed, his face contorting with pain.
‘Sssh,’ she soothed him, ‘don’t try to talk. Everything’s alright.’ She pressed his hand to her heart, willing the life to stop ebbing from him so remorselessly, praying that the ooze of dark-red blood would cease. But she knew it was already too late.
She placed her other hand gently on his cheek and his eyes closed again. His lips struggled to form words and she bent closer to hear him.
With an effort he managed to whisper, ‘You smell of honey and sunshine. Even after all that. The darkness of this world can’t dim the light that shines from you, Eliane.’
She bent lower and kissed his forehead.
And so the last breath he took was perfumed with beeswax, and the breeze that blows across
the river. And, even as it slowed, faltered, and then stopped, his heart was filled with love.
They buried Jack’s body beneath a young oak tree on the edge of a small copse. The grave was unmarked, but one of the maquisards carved a long vertical line crossed by two shorter horizontals into the bark of the tree, forming the Croix de Lorraine – the symbol of the Free French Army – so that as the trunk grew the markings would expand. Eliane stood by the grave long after everyone else had left, lost in her memories of Jack. She remembered the look in his eyes when he saw her, and the way he would smile at her shyly when they were alone, in a way that was in marked contrast to his usual confidence around others. She remembered every moment of the night they’d spent in the cavern beneath Château Bellevue, the wine they’d drunk and the confidences they’d exchanged, how warm and safe she’d felt lying in his arms in that underground world where, for those few, precious hours, the war had seemed so far away.
Finally, she roused herself and gathered a bunch of autumn seed heads and berries, which she laid on the rough turfs that had been heeled in to cover the freshly dug earth of Jack’s grave. At a glance, the field margin looked undisturbed, apart from the single, forlorn posy lying in the grass. She took one last, long look, etching the spot into her memory so that she’d be able to find the young oak tree marked with the carved cross when she came to visit his grave again.
From the valley below, she heard a church bell ring. It was la Toussaint and families were filing into the churchyard at Coulliac to place flowers on the graves of their forebears. Eliane wondered, What about Jack’s family? Are his parents alive? Does he have brothers and sisters? Who will tell them of his death in a foreign land and his burial in an unmarked grave? She wanted them to know that he’d been among friends when he died. That he’d been admired and respected, as he deserved, for his courage and his selflessness. That he’d died saving her life, saving Blanche, saving Yves from a living hell. She wanted them to know that he’d been loved. But there was no way of telling them.
