by Mary Nichols
‘If we start a shooting match in the street, innocent people might be hurt,’ Roger said. ‘I’ve got a better idea …’
Justine had lost track of the days. At first she had counted them religiously, each day followed by a night, scratched in the dirty whitewash of the wall of her cell, but as the months had passed, she had realised it was a futile exercise, it didn’t bring her any nearer to being released and only depressed her. Every few days she was taken for further interrogation, where she was asked the same questions over and over again, sometimes couched in a different way in order to confuse her. She pretended to be muddled and then to remember some little thing to add to her previous answers which meant nothing at all and served only to keep her brain active. It was important not to let her brain go the way of her body, which was rapidly succumbing to poor food and lack of exercise. There was no fat left on her and the muscles in her legs were weak. Her wrists were no bigger than a child’s. She wondered if she might starve to death before they had a chance to execute her as they had Etienne. Her interrogator had taken great delight in telling her of his death and she had had to keep her expression passive and pretend indifference to the fate of a man she had supposedly never met. But it depressed her.
The day of her trial dawned. Her defence lawyer would have a few minutes with her at the court before proceedings began she was told when she enquired about her defence. He would, she had been told, be a German officer appointed by the court, so she had little cause to hope for an acquittal.
She was given a facecloth, some harsh soap, a scrap of towel and a comb that morning and told to clean herself up for her appearance. For two pins she wouldn’t have bothered, but her pride and self-respect took over and she did her best with what she had been given. ‘My dress is filthy and torn,’ she told the woman jailer. ‘What am I to do about that?’
She was given a pink cotton dress whose printed flowers had faded. It was much too big for her, but it was clean; she tried not to think of who had worn it before her. She dressed and sat down to wait. Her nerves were taut, her head trying to think of all the questions she might be asked and how she would answer them; no doubt they would try and catch her out. How much did they really know about Oberon? Or France Vivra?
At ten-thirty her cell was unlocked, her jailer marched her out to the lobby where a German captain and a private waited to escort her to a police van to take her to Fresnes. Her eyes lit up at the sight of them but she quickly looked down at her feet and shuffled forward. They took an arm each and almost dragged her out and bundled her into the van before climbing in beside her. Giles, wearing a peaked cap, was in the driving seat. ‘We must hurry,’ he said. ‘When the real escort arrives and they realise what’s happened, there’ll be a hue and cry.’
He drove off with Justine holding tightly to Max’s hand. Through the streets of Paris they went, weaving in and out of the traffic, along the rue du Cherche-Midi, down the avenue du Maine to Porte d’Orleans, going fast, but not too fast. After a few miles they turned off onto a country road and, half an hour later, arrived at the Chateau Mollet where they tumbled out and made for the cellar, all except Giles who was going to drive the stolen van as far away as possible and dump it before returning to school. He kissed Justine’s cheek. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
They never saw him again; betrayed by one of his older pupils, he was picked up before he could dump the van.
As soon as they were safely inside, Max took Justine into his arms and hugged her. ‘Thank God, it worked. Are you all right, sweetheart?’
She was crying. Tears were running down her face, unstoppable. She hadn’t cried all the time she had been incarcerated, except the day she learnt Etienne had died, and that had not been for long. Tears, she believed, would weaken her. But now all the pent-up emotion of months came rushing to the surface and she sobbed. He held her close against his chest. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ he murmured, feeling the bones of her ribs under his hand. ‘You are safe now. I’ve got you.’
Roger disappeared to tell Anne Justine had arrived and would need nourishing food and some decent clothes, leaving Max and Justine alone. He drew her down onto a bench. Racks of wine bottles reached from floor to ceiling behind them. ‘Was it very awful?’
‘Pretty bad. Etienne is dead. They shot him.’
‘We know. The Germans have been using his radio to contact London. Thankfully, London realised what was happening.’
‘I saw him, you know, only a glimpse but he was a terrible mess. They tortured him before they killed him. I kept thinking it would be my turn next.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing, I swear. I stuck to my story. But I can understand people giving way, though. Solitary confinement eats away your brain, especially when you know the only time you’ll see another soul is when you are taken for interrogation. The temptation to talk for talking’s sake is hard to resist.’
‘What do you think the Germans know about Oberon?’
‘They know its name and they told me they had arrested everyone connected with it. I didn’t know whether to believe them or not, but I pretended I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about.’ She paused. ‘Was anyone else arrested?’
‘No.’
‘Then Etienne died a hero.’
‘And you, my darling, are a heroine.’ He kissed her tenderly, afraid of her fragility.
‘What now?’ she asked, when she was able to draw breath. ‘They will be looking for me and my rescuers.’
‘Yes, we know that. You are not safe in Paris and neither is Roger. It won’t be long before the Boche realise there’s no such person as Hauptmann Bergman, so he is going to take you to Dransville as your nursing attendant.’
‘You have learnt to trust him, then?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry I ever doubted him. We’ve got new identity documents for you. You are Marianne Raphael, the niece of Madame Clavier’s long-dead sister. You have been seriously ill in a sanatorium after working in a munitions factory, which will account for your emaciated condition. You are being sent to Dransville to regain your strength. And that is true enough,’ he said, leaning back to look at her. She was all skin and bone, her cheeks hollow, her lovely blond hair was the colour of dry dust with no life to it. There were sores on her face and her arms were covered in bruises. It made him boil with anger.
She reached up to touch his face. She had dreamt of doing that all the time she had been incarcerated, dreamt of feeling his skin, of tracing the outline of his dear face with her fingers, of putting her lips to his and learning to feel again. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’
‘No. I must stay here. I’ve work to do getting the circuit going again. I’ve been sent a new pianist which is a great relief. He flew in two days ago.’
‘Must you? Why not come to Dransville with me? You’ve done your bit and the longer you go on, the greater the risk. I don’t want to lose you.’
‘You won’t lose me, sweetheart. I have every intention of surviving this war and living happily ever after with you. But to do that, I need to know you are safe. When you are strong enough, you and Lizzie must get over the border. I want to know you are both back in England.’ He paused. ‘Talking of England, you’ll never guess who was piloting the plane that brought the new man in. It was Jack.’
‘Jack?’
‘Your nephew, large as life. I told him we were going to get you out and Lizzie was OK. We didn’t have time to talk, every second on the ground is a risk.’
‘Did he look well?’
‘I couldn’t tell in the dark and he had his flying helmet on, but he sounded OK.’
‘Oh, Max, I am so tired, so very, very tired of it all.’
‘I know, sweetheart, we all are. The count is going to give us a bed tonight, so when it gets dark we’ll go up to the chateau. Tomorrow the new you will leave for Dransville.’
She could hardly believe she was free. There would be no trial, no imprisonment or execution, not this time anyway.
She had been saved because three men, three very brave men, had put their lives on the line to save her. Lying beside Max that night after they had gently and tenderly made love, she cried herself to sleep. If Max knew she wept, he did not say anything.
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth was making her way from the cowshed to the house when she heard the sound of a horse coming up the hill towards the farm. She went to the gate to see who it could be; she hated being caught unawares, especially if she had escapees on the premises who needed to be hidden. It was, she realised with relief, only Alphonse Montbaun’s pony and trap. He had passengers. More men to hide, she supposed, or perhaps young Frenchmen who would rather live rough in the forest than be sent to Germany to work. It was her job to take food and wine to them every other day. It was a great strain on the farm’s resources, but with stolen ration cards, they managed.
She put up a hand to shield her face from the sun so that she could see them arrive and then she gave a squeak of excitement and ran indoors. ‘Mamie, Papie, come and see who’s here.’
Then she ran back to the gate, followed at a slower pace by her grandparents. ‘Merciful heaven!’ Marie Clavier stood and crossed herself. Then she ran forward to embrace Justine who had climbed from the vehicle.
Elizabeth stood, a little apprehensive, waiting for Roger to come to her. He was no longer in that dreaded uniform, but dressed in a white hospital coat over black trousers and a plain white shirt. ‘Well, Lisabette,’ he said, moving forward to take both her hands in his and hold her at arm’s length. ‘I said I’d be back, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’ At first she thought he looked the same as he always had, but there was a subtle difference. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He looked tired, but it was more than that. Whatever had happened in Paris had left its mark. His smile was the same and yet it had a tautness about it as if it were an effort, and his eyes, raking hers, had somehow lost their sparkle.
He pulled her towards him and she found herself enveloped in a bear hug. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you,’ he murmured in her ear.
‘Why, what have I done?’
‘It’s what you didn’t do that matters. It can wait until we are alone.’
The sound of her grandmother’s voice stopped her asking what he meant and she drew away.
Released from her daughter’s embrace, Marie had seen, for the first time, Justine’s emaciated condition. ‘What has happened to you? You are all skin and bone. Have you been ill?’
‘Let’s go inside,’ Justine suggested. ‘I’ll tell you everything then.’
Elizabeth turned to Alphonse. ‘Will you join us in a celebratory drink?’
‘I would but I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get back for an inspection.’ Inspections were the bane of his life; he was always afraid the inspectors might see something they weren’t supposed to see. Luckily he had friends in the agricultural bureau who usually forewarned him.
‘Good luck, then,’ she said and, taking Roger’s arm, followed her grandparents and Justine into the farmhouse.
In the kitchen, Justine sank into a chair at the table while her mother bustled about finding food. ‘You must eat and rest,’ the old lady said. Then as an afterthought, ‘Are they after you, the Boche? Have we got to hide you?’
‘I think, Madame Clavier,’ Roger put in, ‘she ought not to be seen while she looks so ill.’
‘Oh, Justine, what have you been up to?’ the old lady asked.
It took some time to tell a sanitised version of what had happened and by that time food and wine from their hidden store were on the table and they drank to their reunion and again to victory.
Later, when Elizabeth went out to do the evening milking, Roger followed her. He had discarded the white coat and was, once again, Dirk Vanveldt. He made no attempt to help her, but stood watching as she herded the cows into their stalls and began on the first one. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were English?’ he asked.
‘Oh, is that the bone you want to pick with me?’ Her head was in the cow’s flank.
‘Yes.’
‘It seemed safer to stick to my cover story. After all, I didn’t know …’
‘Didn’t know what? Whether to trust me or not?’
She turned to face him. ‘All the escapees were told the same story, it was safer that way; what they didn’t know, they couldn’t tell. I didn’t know you would decide to stay in France and we would …’ She hesitated.
‘We would what? Fall in love?’
‘Do you? Love me I mean?’
‘You flaming well know I do. I’ve told you often enough.’
‘I didn’t know whether you meant it. You always seemed to be joking.’
‘I’m not joking now.’
‘No. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’
‘Nor did you tell me you were as good as engaged to Antoine Descourt before the war. That’s if it really is his name.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No, Justine did, on the way down here. She didn’t know it was all news to me.’
‘We had known each other for years, all part of the same set. We just drifted into it. I was too young to know my own mind …’
He took her hands and drew her to her feet to face him. ‘And do you know your own mind now?’ The flippant young man who had first come to Dransville, who never treated anything seriously, had disappeared and in his place was a man of substance, a man scarred perhaps, but all the stronger for that.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Only think so? Can’t you be more definite than that?’
She laughed. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I want you to say you love me and will marry me.’ He paused. ‘But only if you mean it.’
She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.’
He gave her a tiny shake. ‘Well?’
‘Oh, Roger, I think I’d die if anything happened to you. All the time you were gone I kept imagining all sorts of terrible things, that I might never see you again, and I knew then.’
He gave a whoop of joy, folded her in his arms and kissed her long and hard.
‘What do we tell Max?’ she asked when she was able to draw breath.
‘So that’s his name! Never mind. I don’t think he’ll be heartbroken, not after seeing him and Justine together. She is worrying how to tell you. That’s how she came to mention it in the first place. It would be nice if you could put her mind at rest. She’s got enough on her plate getting over being in prison. She was tortured, you know, but she never talked.’
‘I guessed as much. She is very brave.’
‘Yes, she is. I doubt she will ever tell us all she went through. She deserves to be happy.’
‘Of course she does. I’ll talk to her when I’ve finished milking.’ She looked back at the cow, swishing her tail behind her. ‘Poor thing thinks I’ve abandoned her.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘What do you think our grandchildren will say when we tell them you proposed to me in a cowshed while I was milking?’
He grinned his old grin and pulled her to him to kiss her again. It went on rather a long time and would have gone on longer if the cow had not impatiently stepped sideways and nearly knocked them both over. ‘Later,’ he said, releasing her. ‘When we don’t have an audience.’ Then he helped her finish her task.
‘Justine has been freed,’ Charles told Annelise when he went home for a few days soon after hearing of the successful operation. They had finished their evening meal, the children were all in bed and they were sitting in their favourite place side by side on the sofa with his arm round her. ‘She’s back at Dransville with your mother.’
‘Oh, thank the Lord for that. Will she be safe there?’
‘She should be. If there’s any danger, she can easily slip into Switzerland.’ It sounded simple said like that, but they both knew it wasn’t.
‘What about Lizzie?’
‘As far as we know she is safe and well.’
>
‘How much longer is this going on, Charles? I’m so tired of it all. I want Lizzie home. I want my parents to be safe and the world at peace. There doesn’t seem to be any good news anywhere.’ The war in North Africa didn’t appear to be getting anywhere, the Germans were at the gates of Stalingrad and the Japanese were advancing in the Far East. Worst of all, a recent raid on the French port of Dieppe by a force of Canadians, British and Americans had been a dreadful failure and resulted in heavy loss of life and thousands of men taken prisoner.
‘I know, sweetheart. We all are. But the tide will turn, you’ll see. We’ll win, we just have to be patient. You still have the wedding to look forward to, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but we can’t arrange a date until we know when Jack will have enough leave to allow them a bit of a honeymoon. And Amy is determined to find Lucy’s mother so that she can be here for the ceremony. It’s become a sort of crusade with her.’
‘Yes, I know. She asked me to find out where Mr Storey worked before Lucy was born.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. He came out of the army early in 1918 after being wounded in the thigh and subsequently went back to his job as a gardener on the estate of Sir Robert Manning at Waterbury. He joined the railway in 1920 and moved to Eccles Road. He was married by then and had a baby, presumably Lucy.’
‘Where’s Waterbury?’
‘It’s a village in the north Cambridgeshire fens.’
‘So that’s where Amy’s gone today. She came home yesterday on a weekend’s leave and left again this morning, saying she was going sleuthing. She said she’d be back this evening.’ She paused. ‘I can’t help wondering if it’s such a good idea, Charles, stirring up the past. What is Bert Storey going to say if a wife he thought was dead turns up again? If Amy does manage to find her, we can’t let her come back here, can we? There’s the new Mrs Storey …’
