by Martin Lake
CRY OF THE HEART
Copyright © Martin Lake 2019
Martin Lake has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Cover designed by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Book Covers.
For Laura.
BOOKS BY MARTIN LAKE
NOVELS
A Love Most Dangerous
Very Like a Queen
The Viking Chronicles
Wolves of War
To the Death
The Saxon Chronicles
Land of Blood and Water
Blood Enemy
The Lost King Chronicles
The Flame of Resistance
Triumph and Catastrophe
Blood of Ironside
In Search of Glory
A Dance of Pride and Peril
Outcasts
The Artful Dodger
SHORT STORIES
For King and Country
The Big School
The Guy Fawkes Contest
Mr Toad’s Wedding
Mr Toad to the Rescue
MOTHER AND SON
Grasse, France, August 1942
Rachael Klein squeezed herself into the alleyway. She held her breath, praying that none of her pursuers would hear it. Her heart hammered so loudly she feared it might echo off the walls.
And then her son sneezed. She placed her hand over his mouth and nose.
‘Hush, David, we mustn’t let the nasty men hear us.’
‘But you said it was only a game.’
‘It is, darling. But we don’t want to lose, do we?’
She put her finger to her lips despite the terror which seized her.
Evening was coming. The town was quiet now, with few people out and about. She tilted her head, seeking for any noise. And then she heard it. The heavy thud of marching feet followed by the sound of hammering on doors.
They must be at the top of the town now, making their steady, implacable progress through the little streets and passages. The police knew where every Jew lived, of course, and these were the houses they investigated first. But they also knew that many French people were sympathetic to the Jews and might well seek to hide them. It seemed likely that they would have a list of such people and would soon be knocking on their doors as well. Not that this concerned her, for she had only been in Grasse for a year and knew very few people.
Yet now she had to find someone to help her.
She stepped out into the street. At the same moment a policeman came out of a side-road and ordered her to stop.
He was an older man, past the age he should have retired, with a weary, disgruntled look.
‘Where are you going, Madame?’ he asked.
‘We’ve been for a walk,’ she answered. Her throat was clenched so tight her voice sounded stiff and strangled. ‘It’s so stuffy inside. Now we’re going home.’
He held out his hand. ‘Papers.’
She opened her bag and made a show of searching through it. If he saw her identity card she would be doomed.
‘I don’t seem to have them,’ she mumbled. Then she took out a carefully folded letter.
‘I have this. A letter from the war office. My husband was a doctor in the army. I don’t know if he was captured or killed or escaped with the French forces to England.’
The policeman grunted. ‘My son was at Dunkirk. He’s still a prisoner of war.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he comes home soon.’
The man looked older still now. He pointed at the name on the letter. ‘Klein?’
‘My husband is from an old Alsace family. I’m from Dijon.’
The man looked dubious but opened the letter. Caught in one of the folds was a roll of banknotes, far more than his monthly salary. He held these in his right hand, in front of her face, while he read the letter. She did not take back the notes.
‘Everything seems to be in order, Madame,’ he said. He gave her the letter which she quickly put in her bag, closing the clasp with conspicuous deliberation. She looked at him with an expression as neutral as she could manage.
The policeman glanced around, then put the banknotes in his pocket. ‘Make sure you keep your papers with you next time,’ he said. ‘On your way.’
She nodded in thanks and started off. But she had only taken two steps when he reached out and stopped her. ‘We’re taken all the Jews into protective custody, Madame Klein. If you know of any Jews tell them to co-operate.’
‘I’m not sure if…I don’t know any.’
He stared at her impassively. ‘I’m sure you don’t, Madame. Be on your way now, as quickly as you can. Good luck.’
Then he turned and slipped away.
Rachael stepped back into the alley. She thought she was going to vomit.
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS
Grasse, August 1942
Viviane Renaud peered into the jar on the mantle-piece. It contained five hundred francs, the last of their savings. She closed her eyes and felt the familiar thump of a headache which nowadays constantly lurked in the background. She needed to buy some shoes for Celeste. There were holes in both of them and with autumn coming, packing them with paper would no longer be enough. She made up her mind and took out fifty francs.
Out of habit she glanced around to make sure that the room was neat and tidy. There had been a time when her friends would come to the house for a chat and a cup of coffee but it rarely happened now. And if anyone did come it was with some terrible, unresolvable problem.
She glanced at the picture of Maréchal Pétain above the mantle-piece and stroked it gently with her thumb. It was the same look that she once gave to the portrait of the Madonna in her mother’s house. She no longer prayed to the mother of Christ but could not remember when exactly she had stopped. Perhaps she should start again she thought, even as she knew that she would not.
The Church bell tolled six o’ clock and she ran her fingers through her hair. She was twenty-five years old but she felt much older. She examined herself briefly in the mirror. Despite the exhaustion in her eyes, she took some comfort that her face looked closer to twenty than fifty. Her good looks were strained but they had not yet deserted her. Her mother always said that she was tenacious although this was criticism rather than praise. Now she was relieved that her appearance shared some of this tenacity. She was ageing better than most of her friends.
‘Come on, Celeste,’ she called. She heard the clatter of her daughter’s feet on the stairs.
Her spirits lifted when she saw her. Celeste’s skirt was too short for her and her blouse was patched but she looked as pretty and as lively as ever. She couldn’t remember a time before the war, could not, like Viviane, yearn for better days that seemed never likely to return.
‘We’re going shopping,’ Viviane said.
Celeste pulled a face.
‘Shopping for some new shoes for you, ungrateful girl.’
Celeste’s eyes grew wide and she gasped with pleasure. ‘Can I have some red ones, Maman? I so want to have red ones.’
‘We’ll see.’ Today, Viviane thought, she would do her best not to disappoint her daughter.
She shut the door behind her and took Celeste’s hand as they made their way down the narrow lane. They lived in the Vielle Ville, the old town of Grasse, a maze of streets nestling on a hill,
with steep steps, twisting alleys, little courtyards and dozens of paths leading only to dead ends. She knew almost everybody in the old town, from the oldest grandmother to the youngest child. She could not imagine how people could be happy living elsewhere.
It was the last week of August and the heat beat off the footpaths cruelly, the paper-thin soles of her own shoes doing nothing to keep it at bay. Viviane hugged the shadows between the high buildings where the sun did not reach. This is like my life, she thought, the life of all the people of France, tip-toeing out of sight.
She peered into the window of the only clothes shop still open. The clothes inside were looking more tired with each month although the prices rose, nonetheless. She walked past and headed for Madame Canet’s tiny little shop on the Rue des Moulinets. She pushed the door open, surprised, as always, that Madame Canet had removed the bell which used to welcome customers with such a merry tinkle. Now it felt as if people could enter in only the most furtive manner, fearful in case they were seen or heard.
The familiar smell hit her. Old clothes, worn shoes, stale moth-balls, a few shreds of pipe tobacco tied up in paper, laundry soap, cheese, wine with twists of linen sealing the bottles instead of corks and still, remarkably, the ghostly scents of perfume which Madame Canet used to sneak home when she worked in the perfumery.
‘Bonjour, Viviane,’ Madame Canet said, her voice gravelly from a lifetime’s dedication to Gitanes cigarettes. ‘I hope you don’t want food, I’ve little left other than cheese and an old sausage which has less life than my husband.’
Monsieur Canet had died the year before the war but Madame Canet still referred to him as if he had just popped out of the shop for a moment.
‘I’ve used up most of my ration card for the week,’ Viviane said. ‘I’ve come for a pair of shoes for Celeste.’
Her daughter helpfully held up a foot to the old lady.
‘So that’s a foot is it? Madame Canet said with a chuckle. ‘I never realised that’s what they were.’
Celeste giggled at her joke.
‘I haven’t got much that will fit her,’ Madame Canet said.
‘Anything to see her through the winter.'
‘But it’s summer now, Maman,’ Celeste said. ‘And I want red ones.’
The old lady laughed. ‘We have black and brown and none really suitable for summer. Nor for winter, come to that.’
She bent down and rummaged behind the counter. Viviane and Celeste exchanged an amused look as Madame Canet gasped and groaned like a pan on the fire. Finally, she stood upright, her face red with effort and slapped two pairs of shoes on the counter.
‘They’re horrible,’ Celeste said.
‘Don’t be so rude,’ said her mother. ‘Try them on.’
Celeste did as she was told although her face sulked bitterly. ‘They don’t fit,’ she said after trying the second pair.
‘Too big or too small?’
‘One’s too small, the other too big. And there are nails sticking out of the sole.’ She crossed her arms angrily.
‘We’ll take the big pair,’ Viviane said, reaching for her purse. Then she stopped, colouring a little. ‘How much, Madame?’
‘What do you have?’
Viviane opened her purse to show the fifty francs.
Madame Canet snorted. ‘It’s not enough.’ Then she sighed. ‘You can have them for forty francs.’
Viviane kissed her hand in thanks and then reddened, realising what she had done. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve had my hand kissed,’ Madame Canet said. ‘Thank you.’
The church bell tolled the three quarter hour as they left the shop.
Across the street, Viviane saw Sylvie, with her daughter Monique. Sylvie and she had been friends since they were toddlers; friends and rivals at school, for jobs, for clothes, for boyfriends, for husbands, even for the first one to get pregnant.
‘Viviane,’ Sylvie called. ‘I’m dying of this heat, let’s go up to the cathedral and get some air.’
They wandered along the streets in the direction of the Place de la Poissonnerie. Before the war this would have been thronged with people but it was empty today. People stayed home more now, weary of walking streets with nothing much to look at and little money to spend in bars or shops. Besides, the city lay hot and heavy in the heat, like a slumbering beast, twitching with memories of might have beens.
The sound of their feet echoed against the walls of the houses, the girls’ a fast staccato, the women’s a duller, more plodding noise when, in truth, it should have been as lively as the children's.
It was a relief to climb up the hill to the cathedral. A few old ladies shuffled into its vastness, whether from need for God or desire for coolness, Viviane did not know. She had long ago decided she was an atheist, much to her mother’s distress, and nothing she had experienced in the last few years convinced her that her decision was incorrect.
On the far side of the cathedral were a few benches which looked out over the countryside to the south. Their teacher had told them that Grasse was known as the balcony of the Mediterranean and they could see why from here. If there were a God, Viviane thought, and he wanted a balcony, he would surely have placed it here. They could make out the sea in the distance and the blur of Cannes beside it. A slight breeze blew off the sea, hot still, but making them feel cooler than when they were in the city.
They sat for an hour, talking about their children, about their own childhoods and the difficulties of everyday life. Neither talked about their menfolk. Sylvie’s Louis had been fighting in the north on the day France capitulated and had been a prisoner of war for the two years since.
Viviane’s Alain had been more fortunate. He had been in the army but was a mechanic and avoided the fighting. When the Maréchal had signed the surrender, he stole one of the staff cars, crammed eight of his friends into it, and drove south. He sold the car in Marseille to a gang of petty thieves who had more money than sense and cleared off home to Grasse. The car was too large and too noticeable and the police impounded it within two days.
‘Do you want to share a ciggy?’ Sylvie asked. Viviane nodded. She did not particularly like smoking but cigarettes were hard to come by and so she always took a puff or two if it was offered.
‘It will be good when the war ends,’ Sylvie says. ‘Then we can have American cigarettes and go dancing again. Perhaps we’ll be liberated by the Americans. Such tall boys and dripping with money. They can teach us the jitterbug.’
‘Do you think the war will ever end?’ Viviane asked. ‘One of my husband’s friends says that the Luftwaffe have flattened London and are doing the same to New York.’
Sylvie shrugged. ‘Let’s hope he’s wrong. I’ve never met an American. It will be a shame if they’re all killed before I get the chance.’
She took a deep drag of her cigarette as they watched the western sky grow pink.
‘The girls are growing up,’ Viviane said suddenly, nodding towards where Celeste and Monique were playing some hopping game.
‘But too skinny,’ Sylvie said. She sighed. ‘I suppose I shall have to look for more money when the weather cools off.’
Viviane did not comment. It was no secret between them how Sylvie earned her money when things got desperate.
‘We can lend you some,’ Viviane said, although this was a lie. ‘If Alain has a good month in Marseille.’
Sylvie smiled in thanks.
Just as Viviane refrained from discussing how Sylvie earned money, she never asked about Alain’s business activities. Such things were best left unsaid.
‘It’s getting late,’ Viviane said. ‘We should get back.’
Sylvie’s eyes went to a man loitering in the distance. ‘Will you take Monique to my mother’s?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ Viviane said. ‘But be careful.’
HELP ME
Grasse, August 1942
‘Come on, David,’ Rachael whispered, clenching his hand tightly. ‘Quiet as a mouse now.’
She slipped out of the alley into Rue Vielle Boucherie. And then she saw her. A woman crossing the road with a little girl skipping behind her. The girl had a pair of shoes dangling from her neck by their laces.
Rachael’s hand went to her mouth. She watched the woman and child for a few moments. The woman paused and listened to something the girl said. Then the girl giggled loudly and the woman reached out and brushed her fingers through her hair. They looked happy together. The woman appeared to be good-natured and kind. It was enough. It had to be.
The woman and child continued down the street.
Rachael took one last swift look, her heart hammering with indecision. Then she made up her mind and hurried after them.
They stopped some way down the street while the girl bent to stroke a cat. Rachael seized the chance and approached.
‘Madame,’ she said, ‘please help me.’
The woman turned to her with a nervous start. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
Rachael took a deep breath. ‘The Police are after me.’
She cursed herself for saying this for it would immediately arouse suspicion. Why would anyone flee the police unless they had done something wrong? Any law-abiding citizen would turn her in. This woman had only to call out and the police would come running.
But the woman did not look horrified. Her eyes narrowed, more with curiosity than suspicion. ‘Why are they after you?’ There was no hint of accusation in her tone.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Rachael said. Tears began to form in her eyes. ‘Apart from being a Jew.’
The woman stifled a sob.
‘But why are the police looking for you?’
‘They’re rounding up all Jews and sending us to Germany.’
‘But not French Jews, surely? The government will protect them.’
Rachael shook her head. ‘But I’m not French. I’m German. We fled the Nazis in ‘37. We thought we’d be safe in France.’
‘But the Germans occupy the north. This is the Free Zone. You’re quite safe here.’
Rachael shook her head violently. ‘Not anymore. Premier Laval has ordered that all Jews be taken to camps, even in the Free Zone. Children included. They say the Nazis haven’t demanded the children but Laval is offering them up, nonetheless.’
