by Jim Eldridge
I put on my coat and walked towards the centre of the village. It was a very different atmosphere from the day before: armoured cars were parked in the village square, armed soldiers were everywhere, stopping people and ordering them to open their bags and turn out their pockets. They were searching everyone: men, women, children, all ages. I was stopped and my papers inspected and my pockets searched. The soldiers who stopped me were nervous, frightened. Yesterday, these soldiers had been relaxed, confident, striding about as if they owned the village – which they did. Today, they were desperately trying to hide their feelings of panic, on edge for another attack, another explosion, one that could wipe them out.
I was stopped and searched twice before I reached the village square. It was noticeable that there were fewer villagers out today. I guessed many of them had decided to do the same as Berthe, stay at home, and keep their children at home.
As I was passing Brubel’s hardware store, I heard angry voices from inside, and recognized one of them as Pierre’s. Alert to the fact that this could signal a problem, I went into the shop. Pierre was engaged in an angry exchange with the small figure of the Mayor. Monsieur Brubel hovered anxiously, making frantic gestures to Pierre to calm down and shut up, while the other customers in the shop watched the argument warily.
“It doesn’t matter whether it was the Resistance who blew up the bridge, or just some lone wolf. Whoever did it has put everyone in this village in danger!” shouted the Mayor.
“The people in this village were already in danger!” retorted Pierre just as loudly, and angrily.
“From the Germans?” challenged the Mayor, glaring at Pierre angrily.
I was relieved to see that Pierre shut his mouth and said nothing.
“Let me tell you, young man, I’m glad the Germans are here! They are keeping us safe!” the Mayor ranted.
“Who from?” demanded Pierre, stung.
“From communists!”
“You’d rather have Germans running this country than French people?” shouted Pierre, and I could see that he was getting angrier and angrier.
“Pierre …” I murmured warningly.
Neither Pierre nor the angry Mayor appeared to hear me, they were so wrapped up in their furious argument.
“Yes!” shouted the Mayor. “Because all French Communists will do is hand this country over to their masters in Russia! They are traitors to France!”
“As are those who side with the Germans!” raged Pierre.
“Like me, you mean!” growled the Mayor.
“Yes!” spat Pierre.
At this, there were worried murmurs among those in
the shop.
The Mayor glared at Pierre, breathing heavily, and then suddenly he swung his right hand hard, slapping Pierre across the face.
“You dare to call me a traitor!” he roared. “I fought for this country in the last war!”
“And now you sell it to the Germans!” shouted Pierre, and then, before anyone could stop him, he lashed out, his fist catching the Mayor full in the face.
The Mayor stumbled back, and then tumbled backwards and fell on the floor. Blood was pouring down from his nose.
“Leave!” M’sieur Brubel suddenly shouted at Pierre, pointing at the door.
“But …,” protested Pierre.
“Leave! Now!” repeated Brubel.
I grabbed hold of Pierre by the arm.
“We must go,” I told him urgently.
The Mayor sat up, looking dazed and shocked. M’sieur Brubel grabbed Pierre’s jacket from the peg on the wall and threw it at me.
“Get him out of my shop!” he shouted.
Chapter 19
Pierre snatched his jacket from me and stormed out of the shop, furious, heading homewards. I hurried after him.
“That was stupid!” I raged at him.
“The Mayor has been deserving that for a long time!” snapped Pierre.
“You can’t afford to upset him!” I insisted. “He’s a powerful man!”
“Yet he fell on his backside!” retorted Pierre, and he gave a harsh laugh.
Because of the speed Pierre was going at, we arrived home very quickly. Fortunately, Madame Peroux had gone back to her house. One look at the expressions on our faces told Berthe that something was wrong.
“Pierre punched the Mayor,” I told her. “He accused the Mayor of being a traitor to France. He spoke out against the Germans.”
“And not before time!” spat Pierre. “I’ve been keeping silent too long. We all have!”
Berthe looked at him, aghast, and shook her head despairingly.
“You know the Germans will have to take action against you! You’d better leave. Go and stay with Uncle Albert and Aunt Jeanne for a while.”
“I’m not being driven out of my home by the Germans!” stormed Pierre angrily.
“You have to,” insisted Berthe. “If you stay here and the Germans come for you, they’ll come for Céline as well.”
“Why?” demanded Pierre.
“Because if you are suspect, then so is she! And she is a stranger here!”
“Your mother’s right, Pierre,” I said.
“But who will help you?” he asked me.
“The others,” I said.
“No,” said Berthe. “You will have to go as well, Céline. They will take you in just because you are here with us. They may not suspect you at the moment, but once they start questioning you …”
“I won’t say anything!” I assured them.
“That’s what everyone says,” sighed Berthe. She shook her head. “But once the questioning starts …”
The sound of cars pulling up outside the cottage made us all stop talking. Mimi looked out and said with a shock, “It’s the Gestapo!”
“So soon!” exclaimed Pierre, alarmed.
“Of course! It is the Mayor! They have to make an example of you,” snapped Berthe. “Quick, Pierre! Céline! Up to the attic!”
“No,” said Pierre. “They know I’m here. If they don’t find me, they’ll take you and Mimi in, Maman. Take Céline up there and hide her.”
“But …” I began.
“No time!” Berthe shouted, and she grabbed me by the arm and hustled me towards the stairs.
“I’ll be alright,” Pierre promised me.
Then Berthe was pushing me up the stairs.
“I’ve got documents!” I protested. “I can persuade them I’m just an innocent person.”
“You don’t know the Gestapo!” retorted Berthe.
Oh yes I do, I thought grimly. They killed my father.
Under Berthe’s urgings, I climbed up the short wooden ladder into the attic. Berthe pulled the ladder away and started to carry it downstairs. Her last words were: “Shut the trapdoor and don’t make a sound, whatever happens!”
I lowered the trapdoor and slid the bolt to keep it shut. I made my way across the bare boards to the inside of the sloping roof. There was a crack in two of the tiles, allowing me to peer out.
There were three cars outside. The doors of the cars were open and a man wearing the black leather coat worn by the Gestapo stood by the first car while armed soldiers approached the cottage. Other soldiers waited by the other two cars, their guns pointed at the cottage, ready to fire.
I heard a banging at the front door and a shout in German ordering them to open up. I heard the door open, and then Pierre’s voice demanding to know what was happening. There was the thud of a rifle butt and I heard Pierre cry out in pain.
My first instinct was to throw open the trapdoor and rush downstairs to go to the family’s defence, but I restrained myself. That would do no good. In fact, my presence as a suspicious person would harm the family.
Through the crack in the tiles I saw Berthe and Mimi walking out of the house. Then came P
ierre, being half-dragged by two German soldiers. The Gestapo officer gestured towards the second car, and the soldiers pushed Mimi and Berthe into the back seats.
The soldiers holding Pierre brought him to stand in front of the Gestapo officer, who began barking questions at him. Meanwhile other soldiers were searching the cottage, their heavy boots crashing as they went from room to room downstairs, opening cupboards. I heard their feet on the wooden stairs, and the sounds as they went into the bedrooms, ripping the sheets and blankets from the beds, opening and closing cupboards.
Please don’t let them come up here into the attic, I prayed silently.
I kicked myself mentally for not having brought a revolver with me.
Outside, the Gestapo officer was still firing questions angrily at Pierre, but Pierre remained silent, just glaring defiantly at the officer. Frustrated, the officer suddenly hit out at Pierre, the back of his hand striking Pierre across the face. Pierre stumbled back, then checked himself and regained his balance. Before anyone knew what was happening, Pierre had lashed out at the Gestapo officer, his clenched fist punching the officer full in the face. The officer staggered back and crashed into the side of the car, as the two soldiers leapt on Pierre and gripped him by the arms.
Blood was coming from the Gestapo officer’s nose. The officer straightened up, a snarl on his face, and then he pulled his revolver from its holster, pointed it at Pierre, and pulled the trigger.
No!
There was a shriek of anguish from the other car and Berthe tried to get out, but she was pushed back into the car by two soldiers and the door was slammed shut.
I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to stop myself from crying out.
No! Not Pierre!
The sound of the gunshot outside had brought the soldiers searching the house to a stop, and I heard their boots clattering down the stairs, and then saw them hurry out of the cottage.
The Gestapo officer pointed at Pierre and rapped out a command, and the soldiers picked up his body and put it into the back of the first car.
Then the Gestapo officer and the soldiers got into the cars, pulled the doors shut and drove off.
I was shaking so much I thought I’d faint.
Pierre dead. Berthe and Mimi being taken for interrogation. I felt sick with fear at the thought of what the Gestapo might do to them. Poor Berthe. Poor Mimi! Just a small innocent child!
I knew that once Berthe and Mimi were inside Gestapo HQ, they would soon be forced to reveal the truth about me, and then the Germans would be back.
Chapter 20
I weighed up my options. I needed to get to M’sieur Lemaître for help.
With Pierre dead and Berthe and Mimi arrested, the Germans would be watching out for me, because Berthe had done such a good job of introducing me around the village as one of ‘their own’.
I thought of trying to disguise myself, as we’d been trained to do, but although a disguise might have worked in a large city with lots of people, it wouldn’t in a small village like Malerme where everybody knew everyone else. The only time I could take a chance and go into the village would be at nightfall. But that was many hours away, and it was quite possible that – under interrogation – Berthe or Mimi might be forced into revealing my hiding place in the attic.
So, I couldn’t go into the village for help from M’sieur Lemaître, but I couldn’t stay here. The only answer was to hide out in the countryside at the back of the cottage and wait for nightfall. I’d still be taking a chance that the Germans searching the area might find me, but it was the least risky option.
I came down from the attic and looked out of the back windows of the house, to the open countryside. Like much of the countryside around Malerme, the area was flat, but with small patches of woodland dotted about. There was one such wood just across the fields from the back of the house. The problem was getting to it without being spotted. Although there were no Germans in the fields backing on to the cottages, there were plenty of people who might think that selling me out to the Germans would be a way of ensuring their own safety.
I saw that most of the fields were hedged, and drainage ditches had been dug around the edges of the fields by the hedges. Because it was June and the summer had been mainly dry, I hoped the ditches wouldn’t be too filled with water, although the bottoms would be sure to be muddy.
I armed myself with a sharp kitchen knife, grabbed some bread, put on my flying jacket and slipped out of the back door. Crouching low, I made it to the first ditch unseen, crawled into it, and then worked my way on my knees and elbows along the network of ditches until I reached the wood. Once there, I set about constructing a place to hide out of branches. It wouldn’t protect me from a proper search, but it would keep me hidden from casual glances.
I spent the day in the hide, easing my hunger with pieces of bread. No one came into the wood to search. Occasionally there was shouting from the direction of the village, and all day I could hear the rumble of heavy traffic. I wondered if the Germans were going to try and repair the bridge, and hoped my destruction had been complete. It would be heartbreaking if, after the tragedy of what had happened to Pierre, Berthe and Mimi, the bridge was able to be brought back into use.
I waited until darkness fell, and then made my way through back lanes and ditches to the village. Keeping in the shadows, I made it to the village centre, and the back door of Lemaître’s bakery. A light was on in the bakery. I listened, but there were no voices from inside, so I could only hope that he was alone.
I tapped at the door, then retreated to a hiding place in the shadows of an outbuilding.
The back door of the bakery opened, and I saw the figure of M’sieur Lemaître silhouetted against the light. I gave a bird-like call as a signal. Immediately, M’sieur Lemaître opened the door wider, and I hurried to it. I slipped inside, and he shut and locked the door behind me.
“You are still here,” he muttered.
“What’s happened to Berthe and Mimi?” I asked. “Are they still alive?”
Lemaître nodded.
“Fortunately, the officer in charge decided that Pierre was the only one who might be engaged in Resistance operations. But they are to be sent to a labour camp.” He shook his head sadly. “Very few people come out of them alive, I’m afraid. The conditions there are very bad.”
“The bridge?” I asked.
For the first time, he smiled.
“Destroyed,” he nodded. “Completely.” Then his expression grew serious. “You have to return to England. The Gestapo will know about you by now – there is no way Berthe and Mimi will be able to resist their questions.”
“I can’t leave now! I want to stay here and avenge them,” I told him.
Lemaître shook his head.
“You will only make things worse,” he said. “Either you will be caught and tortured and give us up, or we’ll have to spend valuable time protecting you instead of carrying out acts of sabotage and helping British airmen to get back home. You’ve done what you came here to do, now you must go back to England. We will avenge the Megris family.”
He strode to a large metal ring in the middle of the wooden floor, tugged at it and lifted a trapdoor to reveal a ladder going downwards.
“One of my cellar store rooms,” he said. “You will stay here while I get our radio operator to make contact. I shall pile sacks on top of the trapdoor to hide it. Whatever happens, don’t leave here.”
I nodded and climbed down the ladder. The cellar smelt damp. There were just bits of old machinery down here, nothing that could go mouldy, like flour. Then the trapdoor closed above me, and I was plunged into darkness.
I pulled my flying jacket tight around me, and settled down on the damp floor in the pitch darkness to wait.
Chapter 21
I don’t know how long I sat in that darkness. It was certainly several hours,
but I had no way of checking the passing of time. When I finally heard the sounds of sacks being moved above me and the trapdoor opening, daylight flooded in, temporarily blinding me.
“A plane is coming for you tonight,” said Lemaître. He came down the stairs and handed me a sack. “Here’s some food and water for you. You’ll have to stay down here today.”
“What news?” I asked. “Berthe and Mimi?”
“As I said, they’re going to be taken to a labour camp. A lorry is coming for them tomorrow.”
I bowed my head.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean for them to suffer.”
“They knew the risks when they got involved,” said Lemaître.
“Not Mimi,” I contradicted him. “She’s just ten years old.”
“There is no age limit when you are fighting for your country,” said Lemaître. “And it wasn’t your fault. If Pierre had only kept that temper of his under control …!” He shook his head. “I told him, time and time again: smile to their faces and pretend. That’s the way we’ll win.”
He headed back to the ladder.
“Whatever happens, no noise, and stay here.”
He climbed back up the ladder, and once more dropped the trapdoor and covered it with sacks of flour. This time it wasn’t as pitch dark in the cellar as before – daylight filtered through the cracks in the floorboards above me, enough for me to see to open the sack for the provisions.
The day I spent in that cellar seemed so much longer than the time I’d spent the previous day, hiding in the wood. For one thing there were the sounds of people moving about upstairs, and the voices, many of them German. The whole time I was on edge, always expecting the trapdoor to be thrown open and to find a bayoneted rifle pointed at me.
The hours passed, and finally the vague shreds of light between the floorboards faded and then vanished as night fell, and once more I was in complete darkness.
I don’t know how long I was in that darkness before I once again heard the sounds of sacks being moved, the trapdoor opening. M’sieur Lemaître was standing over the open trapdoor, holding an oil lamp.
