by Marie Joseph
David stared up into the walnut-brown face bending over him. There was a throbbing in his head like the beating of a tom-tom. Thump, thump, with a rhythmic persistence that brought the bile up into his throat. He felt more ill than he ever remembered. He had only understood the gist of what the farmer had said, but his head was spinning, his eyelids too heavy to lift, and it was strange how peaceful he was beginning to feel.
The flak was no longer ripping viciously through the interior of his aircraft; he was safe and the Germans hadn’t found him. For a moment the faces of his crew came before him, laughing eager faces. They came and were gone …
When the broth came David was deeply unconscious once more. The flat face of Louis Colson crumpled in childish disappointment.
‘He will drink the broth tomorrow.’ Fernand nodded at his son. ‘I promise you. He is going to live, this Englishman. You will see.’
Next day the broth was good but greasy. David turned his head away only to have his chin gently turned back again.
‘You must try and drink a little. You have been without food for three days now, and it is important that you try.’
Francine Dubois smiled. At least her lips smiled, but her eyes, of a strange unusual blue, remained as hard as the moorland stones in David’s native Lancashire. Her hair, barley pale, was caught back from her face with an enormous tortoise-shell slide, to hang down her back in a thick cluster of curls, and her skin, tanned by the summer sun, was the only colourful thing about her.
‘It is essential that you eat, M’sieur,’ she said again, and so to please her David allowed her to spoon a little of the broth into his mouth, then retched as a coarsely chopped sliver of onion caught at his throat.
‘Your leg will heal,’ she told David in a matter-of-fact way. ‘But the wound on your head is worrying my father. It ought to be stitched.’ She spooned another mouthful of broth between David’s lips as she talked. ‘The doctor was a good friend, but the Boche shot him two weeks ago for no other reason than being in the market place when they were rounding up ten men.’ The spoon was dipped and raised once again. ‘A German soldier had been found dead, murdered, and so ten men must pay with their lives. You would not understand.’
She put the bowl aside with a sigh. ‘Your country has a pathetic ignorance of what life is like in Belgium now. The doctor was a wonderful man. He would have set your leg and stitched your head and you would be as good as new. But now …’ She spread her hands wide. ‘They are pigs, M’sieur. No, worse than pigs. At least animals have a kind of dignity. They have none.’
David struggled to say something that applied. But the pain in his head was beating him down into oblivion again. The girl’s face, seen through the high unwashed window, was swimming in shadows, but there was so much he wanted to know, so much he had to know.
‘Your English is very good,’ he said lamely, at last.
Francine smiled a smile that merely tilted the outer corners of her wide mouth. ‘Thank you, M’sieur. I was educated at a convent school in Bruges, then I worked in Brussels as a tri-lingual secretary until I married just before the war and the Germans came.’ She stood up from her kneeling position in the straw, brushing her skirt down with her fingers. ‘One of the last things the good doctor did was to provide me with papers saying it was necessary for me to live at home to work the farm and look after my mother. So now you see.’
‘Now I see.’ David nodded, fighting to keep his eyes open, wanting to tell her how grateful he was, how he would move on as soon as he was able, wanting to thank her … His head lolled and he was asleep, unaware that the girl remained where she was for a while, staring down at him with an expression that could have been pity softening briefly her cold blue eyes.
When Francine crossed the cobbled yard and went into the big farm kitchen the woman sitting in a chair by the wood-burning stove looked up from the crochet work on her lap. Her eyes never left her daughter’s back as Francine rinsed out the bowl at the slopstone with quick deft movements before drying it and replacing it on the dresser.
‘He is still there, the Anglais?’
‘You know he is still there, Maman.’ Francine opened the door at the side of the oven and peered inside. ‘He will stay there until he can walk. Then we will see.’
Thin fingers whitened as Odile Colson tightened her grip on the crochet hook. Her nose sharpened with a mixture of fear and anger. ‘Your father is mad! He knows what they will do to us if the Anglais is found. He knows what they will do to me! Her voice dropped to a whimper. ‘Haven’t we suffered enough?’ She motioned to the stick by the side of her chair. ‘Isn’t dive-bombing a woman into a ditch when they first came, turning me into a cripple with the chatter of their terrible machine-guns, enough?’ Hysteria crept into her voice. ‘It is not my duty nor my privilege to defy those strutting brutes. I just want to be left in peace.’
She began a fierce rocking of her chair, leaning her head back as tears spurted from her eyes. ‘And what about Gaston? Would he want you to risk your life – all our lives, this way? Is there no end to suffering?’
Francine closed the oven door with a slam. It was hard to keep her patience with the petulant whimpering figure in the chair, but she had at least to try. She went to kneel by her mother’s side.
‘Mother? I can’t forget the day when the Stukas came either. I remember you as you were, and my heart aches for you. I stopped feeling anything after the news about Gaston came, but yes, my heart aches for you. I love you,’ she whispered. ‘And I want to protect and care for you, but the Anglais has to be got out of Belgium. For Gaston, and for what the Boche did to you, he has to fly again.’
Gently she shook her mother’s hands between her own. ‘Can’t you see that? Father sees, and even Louis sees. This is our chance to score off them. We have to do this thing in order to keep our heads high. Mother? Are you even listening to me? We will beat the Germans. In our own small way we are going to beat them. I swear!’
Fernand and Louis came in from the fields, filthy, unshaven, tired, their faces and arms burned almost black by the hot sun.
‘It’s a good year for plums, Mother.’
Fernand glanced quickly at Francine before placing the overflowing bucket of ripe fruit on the table. ‘See. If we jam it quickly we should be able to keep a fair amount for ourselves.’
‘And what do we use for sugar? Heh?’
Odile began her rocking again, and Francine walked back to the stove.
The stew was browning nicely. She felt the need for fresh clean air, so with a reassuring nod at her father she went outside into the yard.
But the air was still with no comforting breeze to lift her hair away from her head. The sun was dying, and as it died it made a mosaic pattern of the pink tiles on the sloping roof.
Francine walked through the yard, past the corn barn and out into the farm field. The long grasses tickled her bare legs, and the distant fields, seen through the orchard, stretched far off to a slowly dimming horizon.
It was almost impossible to believe that German troops were stationed in the village beyond the fringe of trees. And yet Francine could sense their presence as vividly as if they marched towards her in their grey uniforms, arms swinging. The pain of remembering pierced her like the sudden thrust of a knife.
‘Gaston!’
Whispering his name she began to run, over and across the fields, running until the breath came rasping in her throat. At the edge of the barley patch she threw herself down among the brittle snow-white tufts, and snatched the brown slide from her hair.
As her long curtain of hair covered her face like a blessing, she cried aloud her anguish. There were no tears. Francine Dubois had forgotten how to cry.
It was a year since it happened, that was all. Just one year, and yet she could hardly remember Gaston’s face in detail. She drew a strand of silken hair between her teeth and moaned. She could never forget Gaston’s hands on her. Never. Never. His love-making had been ardent and tender as he c
aressed every single hollow of her body.
‘My own darling,’ he had whispered, his adoration rousing her to such exquisite pleasure that the whole world had dropped away.
‘Oh, Gaston. Gaston …’
Francine got up slowly, fastened back her hair, and turned back to the house, a tall girl with rounded arms sun-kissed to a golden brown.
As she walked past the hayloft she glanced upwards to the high window. Oh, but he was so shy, the Anglais. With his brushed-back hair and neat moustache he talked as if he had a hot potato in his mouth, as all the English did. When the time came he would not let her down. For Gaston’s sake, he must not let her down. But first he had to be restored to health. However much her mother ranted and raved, the Anglais had to stay where he was. It was a risk that had to be taken.
For David the first weeks passed in a haze of pain, dulled for the most part by the continual slipping in and out of sleep. The mild concussion saw to that, but as August moved into September he began to feel a restlessness that tormented him like an army of ants crawling beneath his skin.
Fernand had fashioned him a pair of crutches, and during the long days David would force himself to walk round and round the hayloft, testing his left foot gingerly on the sloping floorboards, praying for the day when the splints could come off. Taking care to keep well hidden, he would peer down through the window, staring out to where on a high ridge the poplars stood motionless, their leaves shimmering and grey in colour. There must be a road over there, he calculated, and saw himself walking down it, unmolested, unchallenged, en route for home.
Francine stayed longer with him now, watching him eat, smiling her tight dismissive smile at his acute embarrassment at the primitive sanitary arrangements.
‘Bodily functions. Why the shame?’ she said straight out, putting that little problem into perspective. He marvelled at her practicality, and wondered what had happened to make her so.
One wet September evening she told him. They were sitting well away from the window, and a tattered bedspread hung across the dusty panes.
‘I am ashamed that we do not have you in the house after dark,’ she told him. ‘But my mother has made my father promise not to take the risk. The shrapnel that shattered her spine did more than paralyse her legs. It made her so alive to fear that she waits for the door to be kicked open. She cannot believe that the Germans will leave us alone. She cannot believe that they can be content with taking our eggs and our farm produce, and every Wednesday when my father drives the cart into town she sits and shakes with terror until he comes back.’ Her voice faltered. ‘She is remembering what they did to Gaston.’
‘What did they do to him?’ David put out a hand to touch her hand, only to see her flinch away as if the small gesture had the sting of a wasp in it.
‘They tortured him,’ she said. ‘It was in the beginning when they were doing what they called “mopping up pockets of resistance”. The evasion lines were already becoming efficient, and Gaston, as a design architect, was working night and day on forged papers. They were to be kept in a safe place, with only the name and photograph to be added. We knew then that allied airmen would soon be dropping from the skies, you see.’
The steel crept into her voice. ‘Gaston was on his way to deliver a batch of documents. He was out after the hour of the curfew, because that night he had insisted on seeing me back to the small flat we shared on the outskirts of Brussels. I pleaded with him to let me go alone, but he wouldn’t listen. The Germans on the whole had been leaving Belgian girls alone, but only the week before a girl we both knew well had been brutally raped by three of the bastards.’
David saw that her stare was fixed straight in front of her, like an epileptic when all sense of being has vanished. ‘Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.’ He was so aching with pity he felt his eyes well with tears. ‘I understand.’
‘No! You do not understand! How can you?’ Francine shuddered. ‘Gaston was a gentle man. He was so gentle that at first, when we first met, I thought he had a feminine streak in him, but I soon found out that in his gentleness lay his strength. He refused to tell them anything, and so they broke his body, but they could not touch his mind. Then one day they had Gaston taken out into the street, and shot. I had heard they were taking a bunch of prisoners to a working camp in Germany, and I hoped … I prayed.’
David held his breath.
‘I saw them drag him out from the back of a truck parked outside the building they had commandeered for their Gestapo Headquarters. I was in the Place that day. Oh, I don’t know why. Just wanting to try to be near him, I suppose.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘They rounded up all the people there, the passers-by and even the children. To watch, you see. To watch and learn what happens to anyone who defies them.’
‘Gaston’s hair used to grow down into the nape of his neck. It was fine hair, fine like a baby’s, but when they shot him his head came open. I saw it. And I’ll never stop seeing it, whenever I close my eyes.’
David squeezed his own eyes tight shut to block out the horror. His arms enfolded her, holding her close, straining her to him, making her agony melt into him.
Then, with a terrible wail, her control snapped and the tears came.
At the beginning of the following week the Germans came. David heard the noise of a motor-cycle engine and pressed himself close to the wall near the window overlooking the yard.
Because the weather was still warm a broken pane of glass had not been filled in. He found that by straining his ears he could hear what was being said down below.
There were two of them, thick-set men, burly in the field-grey uniforms. They shouted at Fernand in a mixture of German and bad French. Both Fernand and Louis, on their way back from their work in the fields, wore sacking round their shoulders as a protection against the morning drizzle, and as they stood close together they looked like a couple of country yokels. Fernand’s head was bent, and Louis was already casting darting glances in the direction of the hayloft.
David felt his muscles tense with fear.
‘You!’ The German corporal pointed a finger at Fernand.
‘I am farmer. Fernand Colson.’
The taller German looked up to the sky as if seeking patience. ‘I can see you are farmer. I asked you your name.’
‘Sorry.’ Fernand returned the German’s insolent stare coldly, then to David’s horror Louis lifted his big head and glanced fearfully over his shoulder, straight in the direction of the hayloft.
‘And him?’ A finger was pointed at the quivering man-child.
‘This is my son.’
Again the flat eyes darted towards the loft, and as David felt the sweat breaking out from every pore in his body the German stomped towards Louis and flicked a contemptuous finger into the massive chest.
‘You! Why do you keep looking over there?’ He stared over Louis’s shoulder, and David flattened himself against the wall, every nerve alive and quivering. Louis was moaning now, rocking himself from side to side.
‘I haven’t done nothing!’ he sobbed. ‘Father! Tell him I haven’t done nothing!’
Fernand cut in angrily, and David marvelled at his courage. ‘Do you not have “children” like my son in Germany? Ask me your questions. You cannot expect straight answers from my son. He is terrified of you. Even the colour of your uniform frightens him. Can’t you see?’
‘I didn’t do nothing.’ Louis’s voice had thinned to a pleading whine. ‘Do not cut my throat. Please …’
David closed his eyes. So that was the ploy Fernand had used to silence his son, and now it looked as if his words were having an entirely opposite effect on the poor fuddled mind. He glanced round the loft for means of escape and found none. The only way out was down the rickety ladder, and even if he managed to negotiate that with his splinted leg, the way out led directly into the cobbled yard. He was trapped, and they were trapped, the whole of the Colson family who had risked their lives in keeping him there. They would be sho
t, each one of them, even the mother who had prophesied this day would come. He felt the bile rise warm and bitter in his throat.
‘Would you like a bowl of turnip soup?’
He heard Fernand’s voice, strong and deep. He smiled at his son’s red moonface. ‘Go in and tell your sister.’ He gestured towards the open farmhouse door. ‘There will be bread hot from the oven. You look as if you have come a long way. You are welcome to share our meal.’
‘Antwerp,’ the German said. ‘We thought we were on the road to …’ He took a small map from his pocket and scrutinized it. ‘We want to get to a place called Diksmuide. Can you put us on the right road?’
David let out his breath in a long sigh. Dear God in heaven … they were lost, that was all! The Boche in their smart grey uniforms, on their motor-cycle, had merely lost their way. Oh, dear God, it was funny … If it wasn’t so terrible it would be laughable. He leaned slightly to the side and saw the two Germans following Fernand across the yard, the thought of turnip soup and hot crusty bread turning them momentarily into human beings. They even stopped at the door and wiped their feet in their shiny leather boots on the scraper by the open door.
‘Mother?’ David heard Fernand call out. ‘We’ve got two visitors. For lunch.’
It was not over. Far from it. For the next half hour David stood exactly where he was, pressed against the wall, his eyes slewed round to the window. He imagined them sitting round the table in the farm kitchen he had never seen, Fernand playing the host, Francine holding the newly baked bread against her, as she sliced. He saw the mother, imagined her dark and brooding as her daughter had described her, and he saw Louis’s strangely ovalled eyes giving his childish terror away.
When he heard them clatter out into the yard again he looked down, shaking his head to blink away the sweat that was running down his forehead and into his eyes. He saw the Germans slap Fernand on the back; he heard their loud laughter as they kicked the motor-cycle’s engine into life. And he saw them drive away, a hand raised in a farewell gesture that looked, to his disbelieving eyes, like a Hitler salute.
