Rosie's War

by Rosemary Say

  ‘200 francs each,’ he quickly told us. ‘And don’t make a sound. We’ll be there in a few hours.’

  The old lady gave us some bread, which we put into our pockets. We followed him out. He seemed very unconcerned. I got the impression that he did this trip regularly. Well, if that was the case it was easier for him than it was for me.

  We had only a few miles of the wooded, boggy country to cross but it was rough going. It was a moonlit night and very cold. We could hear the dogs baying far away; I shivered at the thought of being savaged by an Alsatian. At one point I sank into a bog. The boy pulled me clear and put his hand deep into the squelchy mud to retrieve my rather sorry-looking boot.

  The crossing was a nightmare: the swamps, the cold, the fearsome noise of the dogs in the darkness and the thought of being shot by a German guard. And all the time we were pushing though thick woodland with the branches catching in our clothes. There was no track and I was terrified that the boy would go too fast and leave us in this dark wood. Not once did he look round to see if we were following and we didn’t dare get too close in case the branches that he was pushing through came swinging back into our faces.

  He stopped. ‘Keep quiet and stay here. I have to do something for my father. I’ll be back soon.’ With that he was gone.

  Frida and I looked at each other in horror. I reached out and took her hand. I didn’t want to be left alone. All I could hear was the noise of the dogs at the other side of the wood. There is something so primeval about that sound; perhaps it’s the instinctive terror of the hunted. I don’t know what we would have done if it had gone on much longer. Probably fled back through the bog to light and people. The boy suddenly reappeared, just as quietly as he had left. Without a word he simply started walking again, with Frida and I stumbling along behind. Suddenly he turned to us as we approached a river.

  ‘We’re near the line now,’ he whispered. ‘Be absolutely quiet. If I hear a sentry I will run. Be ready. Here, hold my hand.’

  We crept out from the wood to the small track used by the soldiers. There was no one about. We moved slowly down to a little bridge and were met by a friend of his who was about the same age.

  ‘You’re in the zone libre,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘Vive la France!’ Frida shouted as we hugged each other. ‘We’ve made it.’

  ‘Quiet! The Germans will still shoot if they see you.’ Our guide put his finger to his lips in alarm.

  The boys took us to a farmhouse near by where their bicycles were propped up outside. We sat on the crossbars clutching our bags. It was like being the figurehead on a battering ram: they simply took their feet off the pedals and freewheeled at a terrifying speed down the steep hill to the village of Poligny. We stopped at the back of an inn where our guide knocked at the door. A man came out and nodded in our direction. Not a word was said by anyone. Our guides seemed to melt away before we could even thank them.

  The proprietor’s wife led us into the kitchen. She was a friendly, motherly woman of about fifty. Over a meal of hot bean broth she began to explain about life on this side of the demarcation line.

  ‘Be careful,’ she warned us. ‘Where you have just come from you can see your enemy in their uniforms and everyone knows the collaborators. Here it is different. The Germans don’t wear their uniforms and in Vichy France everyone suspects his neighbour. If you have to speak at all, speak in French.’

  We had dried off by now and felt much warmer. She took a candle and showed us up the stairs. At the top she halted and turned round to look at us.

  ‘We have to go through another room to get to your bedroom,’ she said. ‘It is occupied by the sister of a policeman. She will report you if she hears you speaking English. Just so that you know.’

  We were past caring. I was so tired that I curled up on the bed and went to sleep without a word. The next morning we were up late. Thankfully, our neighbour in the next room had gone. Sitting downstairs in the warm kitchen we told the family about our escape. We were among friends. Henri, the proprietor, was a soulful looking man who had been badly wounded at Verdun in 1916. He took out a bottle of brandy and toasted us. I drank it happily even though it was not yet midday.

  ‘Tell them in London,’ he said, ‘that not all of France has given in to the Germans.’

  As he couldn’t organize a lift for us to Lyon until the next day, we spent that afternoon with his older daughter, a rabidly anti-German girl of about twenty. She proudly took us to meet her friends. Perhaps this was not the wisest thing to do but she was terribly eager to show us off. Talking to them we began to understand how the age-old animosity between the north and south of the country had been inflamed by the new division imposed by the Germans. Rumours of the behaviour on either side of this fortified line were cleverly circulated to build up jealousy and despair. They also told us of the intrigue and double-dealing that went on in Vichy France.

  ‘Sometimes people just disappear,’ a rather serious girl told us.

  I was amazed. ‘But surely you know what’s happened and why? I mean, you must see them leaving their homes with the German soldiers?’

  She shook her head. ‘You won’t see many German soldiers around here. It’s the gendarmes who do the dirty work. I saw them hustle our neighbour into a car.’

  ‘Something similar happened to me in Paris,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But you weren’t on the German list simply because someone hated you.’

  This group of friends were desperate to help us get away. We were touched by the enthusiasm of everyone that we met on our first day in Unoccupied France. Indeed, we had had nothing but help in both zones over the past few days. Our journey from Besançon up to the Swiss border, back again and now over the demarcation line had been organized by a network of people who had risked a great deal for us. No one seemed to ask just who these English girls who needed help were. After all, we could easily have been spies or informers, yet people didn’t hesitate to help us.

  This spirit of self-sacrifice and bravery was very different to the widespread image of French collapse and cowardice that we encountered when we got back to London. Frida and I were to travel all over Britain in the months that followed our return, giving talks about our experiences. I see from my notes for one of them that I said, ‘Thanks to the French people who sheltered us, fed us and gave us money at the risk of their lives we made our way … ’ That was no exaggeration.

  Early the following day a silk merchant drove us to Lyon while we sang our hearts out in the safe confines of a big car jogging hesitantly along on poor petrol. We were heading for the US Consulate. As in Paris, this still-neutral country had a British Interests Section attached to its diplomatic mission. It was our intention to see if we could get some sort of protection from the US authorities to travel on the Paris-Lyon-Marseille express. Our driver dropped us on the outskirts of the city, as he was heading off elsewhere. He told us that even though it was Sunday the concierge at the Consulate would be around; he could help us with somewhere to stay for the night. We set off into town. It was a long walk and it wasn’t until early afternoon that we finally got to the Consulate. We found it completely shut up with no sign of anyone, let alone a concierge. We looked at each other in despair.

  ‘We can’t wander around yet another town until tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Our luck is only going to take us so far.’

  ‘Well, we don’t have any choice. Come on, let’s see Lyon and then decide what to do.’

  It felt so odd walking around looking at shops with goods on display in the windows and to see people bustling about. The absence of German uniforms and posters on the streets was strange. We both felt a little overwhelmed and took refuge in a cinema. We saw a dreadful film on the life of Beethoven. It was one of those soupy hagiographies where Beethoven kept gazing out of the window looking constipated while music rose around him. We didn’t care. At least it put off the moment of having to make a decision.

  ‘Pat,’ Frida
whispered as the film swelled to its finish. ‘I don’t think we can wait. Our papers aren’t good enough to risk in a strange hotel and I’m nervous here. We don’t know anything about this city.’

  ‘I agree. Let’s just take our chances on the train to Marseille.’

  ‘Fine,’ Frida said after some hesitation. ‘Somehow or other we’ll contact the US Consul once we’re there. At least we’ll be on the coast and not stuck in the middle of France.’

  We were both worried and frightened about getting the train without official US help. Henri in Poligny had told us that the train could be heavily patrolled as it came from Paris and crossed the demarcation line. But what else could we do? Maybe we were influenced by the previous afternoon’s talk but Lyon definitely felt different from Besançon and Nancy. It was full of elegant buildings and busy streets, yet was curiously oppressive. We had had such high hopes when crossing the line but now we just wanted to get away. We picked up our bags and went straight to the station, which was as beautiful, impressive and dangerous as the rest of the city.

  It was a nerve-racking journey. The train lurched and shuddered its way down to Marseille. At any moment we expected to hear the order ‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plaît.’ It never came. I don’t know if the atmosphere was a projection of our own fears, but the whole train felt tense and worried. People were quiet or talking in whispers. They seemed to be waiting for something or perhaps someone to come and demand what everyone was doing there. No one came, nothing happened. Slowly, slowly we pulled into Marseille.

  And then we realized why the train had been empty of officials. An inspection was indeed going to take place, but much more thoroughly and much more slowly at the ticket barrier. As we disembarked we could see a group of officials ahead, carefully checking the passengers’ papers. The beginning of a long queue was forming. We joined it, not looking at each other, knowing that this was the end. There was no way our papers were going to fool this sort of official check.

  The train had pulled in at an end platform. Looking around in despair we saw a wall of railway buildings along the side of the platform. They had the usual drab, dusty look which makes them merge into one long, unidentifiable building. Amazingly, we caught sight of a sign marked ‘Hôtel’ above a door. Unnoticed in the large, noisy queue we pushed open the door and found ourselves in the station restaurant. Another sign pointed to a long passage. We followed it and found ourselves in a different world. We were in a foyer with all the activity and comfort of a forgotten era: the Hôtel Terminus.

  Our luck had held after all. We had arrived unscathed in Marseille.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Settling Down in Marseille

  For a few moments we simply stood there, dazed but relieved to have got away from the police check. We were bewildered by the luxury that confronted us. It was obvious that we were vulnerable: with our battered bags and shabby clothes we stood out a mile. Would our false papers be good enough here? Could we even afford to pay for a room?

  ‘Let’s try him,’ Frida said suddenly, pointing towards a man reading The New York Times. Before I could say anything she had approached him.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said in her most polite Cambridge accent. ‘But we need to get in contact with the US Consul urgently. Could you possibly help us?’

  ‘I take it you’re English?’ he asked quietly, looking around him. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me a bit about yourselves.’

  I quickly took him through as much of our story as I wanted him to know. I admitted we had crossed into Vichy France without proper papers but carefully said nothing about escaping from Vittel. He listened thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, your luck is still holding,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘You could have asked anyone in this lobby but you chose me and I know the Vice-Consul. I’ll see if I can get him at home on the telephone. You wait here.’

  We couldn’t quite believe this. Since getting off the train a few minutes before it seemed that we couldn’t do anything wrong. He went up to the desk and made a very quick call, returning to where we were sitting with a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Mr Randall is speaking to the people here at the hotel to see if you can be put up for the night. You’re to be at his office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Here’s the address,’ he said, writing something in his pocketbook and tearing out a sheet.

  He escorted us to the front desk where a pompous man visibly shivered with disapproval as we handed him our passports. He gave us our key but offered no help in getting to our room.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I said to our American helper. ‘We don’t even know your name.’

  ‘John Powers. And no need to thank me. Look, I was stationed in Hampshire during the last war. And we’re soon going to be in this one together. I only wish I could do more to help you but I’m not staying in town. Mr Randall will look after you. He’s a good man.’

  As we went in search of our room, Mr Powers returned to his chair and the perusal of his newspaper. It had been an extraordinary chance meeting. We didn’t even know what he was doing in the hotel.

  Our overnight stay was scarcely a hardship for the room was truly luxurious. The bathroom had soap, wonderful large towels, hot water and a bathmat. I found some bath salts and spent most of the evening wallowing in bliss while Frida lay fretting on her bed.

  We were at the US Consulate just before ten the next morning. There was quite a crowd of people waiting there. Much to our surprise we were ushered into a small anteroom which had a table and chairs. A large man entered and sat down in front of us. He was smoking a pipe and was in his shirtsleeves. For some irrelevant reason, I noted to myself that a British consular official would never have taken off his jacket while at work.

  ‘Lee J. Randall, Vice-Consul,’ he said, shaking our hands. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. And your names are?’

  ‘Rosemary Say and Frida Stewart,’ I replied. ‘We’ve escaped from the British Womens’ Camp at Vittel and want to return to England.’

  I quickly told our story and he made some notes on a pad, asking a few questions. His manner was friendly, even fatherly, but also businesslike.

  ‘The first thing to understand,’ he said when I had finished, ‘is that I can’t wave a magic wand and return you home. This city is the gateway out of Europe. It’s flooded with refugees from all over. Walk downtown and you’ll meet Poles, Belgians, Czechs and others from every walk of life. Some have money while others are destitute. But they all have one thing on their mind: escape. To the USA, Canada, England, wherever.’

  ‘But you can help with the paperwork for us to get back home?’ I interrupted in a worried voice.

  ‘Yes, Miss Say, we can certainly do that. You’ll need permission to leave France and also visas for transit through both Spain and Portugal. Once you’re in Lisbon we’ll get you home by boat or plane. The British Interests Section here will help with money, ration cards and food coupons. You’ll need to register yourselves with the police. But don’t forget that you’re going to be sitting a very long time on the quayside.’

  We both must have looked extremely puzzled at this last sentence. Mr Randall raised his palms to us and smiled.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be flippant,’ he continued, ‘but you need to come to terms with the fact that it may take months to get the paperwork done. Everyone is after the same thing.’

  ‘But we’re not,’ I said in slight desperation. ‘We simply want to get home. We’re not refugees trying to get into a foreign country.’

  ‘Yes, there is that distinction but it doesn’t make much of a difference, Miss Say. Transit visas for anyone are still difficult to come by. The Spaniards aren’t that keen on refugees from France flooding into their country. They can hardly feed their own people as it is. The border is constantly being closed. The same goes for the Portuguese. Plus, the Vichy bureaucracy here can’t cope with the numbers needing papers. Marseille is full. There’s hardly a room to be had
in the hotels.’

  Mr Randall certainly knew how to let us down. We had naïvely assumed that with American help our visas would come through in a matter of days. He considered us for a few moments.

  ‘Look, I can get you a room at Madame Morbelli’s,’ he said somewhat reluctantly. ‘But no complaints. She’s on the rue Saint-Victoire. Appropriate maybe?’ he said smiling. He quickly scribbled down the address and got up to go.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll want to contact your parents. Come next door to my secretary’s room. She’ll arrange money and coupons. She’ll also do you a letter giving you permission to be out after curfew.’

  We were both allowed to send telegrams home of strictly fifteen words (plus name). Mine read:

  ARRIVED HERE SAFELY AWAITING REPATRIATION VIA LISBON THROUGH AMERICAN CONSUL MARSEILLES HOPE ARRIVE HOME JANUARY. ROSEMARY SAY.

  When I eventually reached London I discovered that this brief telegram had totally bewildered my poor parents. They thought (quite naturally) that I was still at the camp in Vittel! What were we doing in Marseille? Neither Frida nor I had thought about this when we sent messages to our loved ones. My father contacted the Prisoner of War Department at the Foreign Office the same day he received my telegram. Although this was ‘unexpected but excellent news,’ he wrote, ‘we cannot imagine why these two girls are suddenly being repatriated. We have not heard that either has been ill. We can hardly think that they have escaped. We hope their present position is secure and safe.’ To my parents it all sounded like the typical muddle of their younger daughter.

  This was, in fact, the beginning of a constant exchange of letters and telegrams between my father and various British Government departments over the following months as we attempted to make our way back to England.

  Looking through this sheaf of documents many years later I was struck by the constant demands for money made by the British government to my father. He replied to our telegram with one of his own and for this privilege he was charged the enormous sum of £1.7s.4d. (well over £50 in today’s money). I have no idea what would have happened if he couldn’t have paid; as it was, the total cost of getting us home was to be a serious concern for him. The demand for the telegram payment was typical of the bureaucracy of the time. My father received a bill that had been typed and copied. He then had to pay and was given two signed and stamped receipts.