by Mary Wood
Losing herself in Theresa’s story always helped. Picking up the books, she wondered how Theresa, now almost nine months pregnant, would cope with childbirth and what they would do with the baby. From what she’d read earlier, when Richard and Sarah were tied up with everything, no one but Theresa and Pierre had known she was pregnant. Theresa had managed to conceal her condition from everyone, even the Pontés! She hadn’t gained a lot of weight, and what she had gained she’d passed off as being due to the delicious bread Monsieur Ponté baked on a daily basis. Wearing a corset, which often caused her agony, had helped to keep the area most expanding from showing too much. And yet her missions had intensified.
She and Pierre were still passionate lovers. Some of Theresa’s accounts of their love-making had set up longings inside Lizzie, and she wondered if there would ever be a man that wanted to love her in that way. She doubted it, and that made her sad. She may be confined to a wheelchair, but she wanted just the same things as other girls wanted. But even if it was a possibility, her chances of meeting anyone had now diminished. At least in London she could take herself out and meet people in the cafés she was able to get into. Here, she wondered if she’d be able to get out on her own. Even though the surface of the lane was smooth enough, some of the bends were very dangerous. If a car came round at speed, she could be killed. These thoughts set a sadness in her as she realized that in some ways she was more trapped now than she’d ever been. Opening the book, she decided to tackle her own problems later. For now she needed escape from them.
A Battlefield Baby – September 1943
Theresa could see the Germans over the ridge. The local intelligence had passed information to Pierre that Herr Gunter had ordered that his men go through a refresher course in battle-training. He’d been heard shouting that they were all getting soft and that they must be ready to fight in combat if called upon. His battle cry of ‘Unser Führer könnte auf uns an rufen an jedem Tag!’ had been heard and interpreted as ‘Our Leader could call us to arms any day’ by Randolph – not the young man’s real name, but she didn’t know what that was.
Randolph, a German-born Jew, had been sent by his parents to live with a distant French relative who owned the flour mill in the area. When news came through that his parents had been taken to Auschwitz, his relatives adopted him. Randolph didn’t look like a Jew and, in fact, attended the local Catholic Church with his adoptive parents, but in his heart he was one, and he hated his native countrymen.
Joining the Resistance at fourteen years old, and accepted because of his language skills, Randolph worked in a cafe, which was popular with the Germans. He was sixteen, but looked younger. The Germans took no heed of him when he waited on them. They discussed things they would not have done had they known he spoke their language fluently. The intelligence he picked up was delivered to his father at the mill and given to Pierre. This used to happen through Monsieur Ponté, delivered in notes hidden in the flour sacks, but now it came through various sources. It never came direct from Randolph.
In this instance, Randolph had learned when and where the training was to take place. The where had posed them problems, as it was close to their safe house and they had had to minimize their comings and goings. Pierre had not been able to visit during the last week, and had sent messages through various means about how they should prepare and where they should all be at a given time. They in their turn had dispatched the messages through a complex system to each of the men they would need to help them with this ambush.
Randolph had told them that from what he’d heard, it appeared Herr Gunter was disenchanted with his role of running the affairs of the occupation and security force and wanted to be on the front line. He had said what they had all been thinking: that he could see a day coming when the Allied troops made a big push to end the war. Very foolish and, Theresa thought, dangerous talk for a German. It could put him in deep trouble with his Führer, but it also showed a foresight that in her experience the Germans didn’t usually possess. They seemed capable only of seeing their own victory and supremacy – at least, this was what they put over to the masses.
Out here on the edge of the wood, the German soldiers, complacent from their years of controlling and riding roughshod over the town and village people, were putty in their hands. Pierre had masterminded a plan to attack and kill as many as they could, steal weapons and ammunition, and generally disrupt Gunter’s plans for his men being ready to take up arms to fight.
So near now to her time, lying face down on the damp grass sent excruciating pains through Theresa’s stomach, which a couple of times had had her rolling over and drawing up her knees. Terrified as to the reason for them, she silently begged, Not now, God, not now! She couldn’t go into labour tonight!
Though she couldn’t see the others through the blanket of darkness, she knew they hadn’t heard her movement. If they had, one of them would have come to her ready to shoot her if they thought she was signalling the Germans – their nerves were on edge to the point that it was difficult to stop them shooting anything that moved when it shouldn’t during an operation. Fear of this had her clenching her teeth when the next pain gripped her. Sweat soaked her body. If only she knew where Pierre was . . .
In the camp below, men were drinking and laughing, giving the impression that they weren’t taking their task seriously. For a moment she felt sorry for them, as they knew not what awaited them, but as they became more and more drunk, and began to sing, her mind cursed them. Smug bastards! They thought themselves invincible. This thought had hardly died before she heard women’s laughter. Collaborators! Again, she felt sorry. Women often felt they had no choice but to provide pleasure for the soldiers. Often their own husbands forced them to do it for the money and protection it brought, and many lived in fear of reprisals if they didn’t. However, no one saw this as an excuse, and the women lived a life of outcasts from their own society and under threat from both sides. The unattractive women were the worst condemners, braying for blood whenever they could and revelling in exposing the girls who succumbed. Well, these ones tonight would end up dead. They were too dangerous to leave alive. If they recognized any of the Resistance, they might betray them.
If only the soldiers would settle down and fall asleep. She didn’t know how long she could last. Not crying out when a pain began to build had her biting her knuckles until she could taste her own blood.
A movement next to her had her turning, mid-contraction, gun at the ready. A wood pigeon’s coo sounded, signalling that this was Pierre. Her fear for him at breaking the rule of the mission had her held in terror. She dared not acknowledge him.
They waited. Nothing happened. Pierre had got away with moving his position. How, she did not know, as she’d known a scared youngster amongst them to open fire on a rabbit once, compromising them all and ending the mission in disaster with two of their number dead.
Pierre squeezed her hand. Her response was a grip of iron as another pain took her. As it passed, she could feel the tension in his body and almost taste his fear. He touched her stomach and then her face, and she nodded her head as she interpreted his action as a question. His tap on her cheek told her he understood. He held her hands and lifted them to his mouth, putting hers on the outside so that she could feel him preparing to cup his mouth and send out the signal to abort the mission. She snatched his hands away.
What happened to her was of no consequence, as they would never get a chance like this again. On rare occasions they had killed the odd German in the village, but never did they have them all together and with their guard down, as they did now. They couldn’t miss this chance. Besides, they were badly in need of the ammunition. The last drop from England had gone wrong and had had to be aborted. There wouldn’t be another one for weeks.
Somehow, through two more very strong contractions, she managed to keep quiet. She didn’t know how; she only knew that it was imperative she did as at last the Germans were beginning to settle.
When P
ierre gave the signal it made her jump. His wood pigeon coo this time was loud and repetitive, cutting through the silence of the night. A couple of Germans stopped what they were doing and looked towards the trees. She held her breath, then released it as she saw them go about their business within seconds.
Unable to follow Pierre, Theresa watched as the figures of fifty or so men moving forward were silhouetted against the lights of the camp. Prayers for the success of the mission vied with those willing God to keep Pierre safe.
The first shot cracked the air and saw a soldier crumple to the ground. Caught unawares, more followed him as they dropped like skittles. Then return fire began, and she saw one of their own fall. Her heart thumped with fear. Watching it was far worse than taking part. Suddenly she saw a contingent that she hadn’t seen before. More than a dozen Germans appeared from the back of the camp. They were setting up machine guns . . . Oh no! The Resistance, now engaged in heavy fire, hadn’t noticed!
Another pain had her screwing up her eyes. It built and built and scrunched her into a ball. Oh God! This was madness. Her child couldn’t be born here in this muddy field, miles from anywhere and in the middle of a battle. Help me . . . God, help me!
As the pain subsided, her leg touched something. Her belt! She’d had to remove it earlier. Strapped into it were two hand grenades. She could disable the machine gun contingent! Turning round, she saw that they had the guns on tripods and were beginning to feed the strips of shot. The kneeling Resistance-fighters were a sitting target.
Grabbing her belt, she jumped up and ran the fifty yards that got her within throwing distance. Unclipping the grenades, she lay one on the ground and tugged at the pin of the other.
A splitting pain doubled her. No! No!
She had seconds. If she didn’t throw it, she would die, blown to pieces – along with her child. Making an extreme effort, she straightened, and with everything that was in her threw the grenade, hitting the ground and covering her head as it left her hands. The explosion deafened her. Debris slapped her body. For one moment it seemed everything had stopped. The silence clawed at her, but then from a long way off noise began to filter through to her. Gunfire . . . automatic gunfire. Had she missed?
Lifting her head, she saw the shots were coming her way! Oh God! Lying as flat as she could, she could feel the rush of air as bullet after bullet went over her head. Then it stopped. Looking up, she saw she hadn’t missed: one gun and several men lay in a carnage of bodies and metal, but another had not been hit and was being re-fed with shot and made ready to fire again. Grabbing the second grenade, she pulled the pin. Her hands shook, and sweat ran into her eyes. She had to take the chance and stand up; she couldn’t aim unless she did. Don’t let me miss. Please don’t let me miss. The grenade left her hand. She waited. The gun released a round, but it went into the air as the grenade landed and the men began to run. They were too late, and the explosion sent their bodies flying in all directions. An arm blown off one of their bodies came hurtling towards her and landed at her feet. Vomit billowed from her mouth as she sank down. Through her tears she saw the few German soldiers who were left alive running away in the direction of the town.
A pain more intense than any she’d felt before brought a scream from her that stopped the cheers of the men. The pain had hardly died before it built again. This time she screamed, ‘Pierre . . . Pierre!’
His arms were around her.
‘It’s coming. The baby is coming . . . Help me!’
Holding her son close, tears of relief ran down Theresa’s face as several men lifted her onto a makeshift stretcher. Once she was in Pierre’s van, Pierre gave the men orders to drive the ammunition lorry as quickly as they could to one of their bunkers – safe, undetected dug-outs and caves. Here the lorry could be unloaded and then driven away and pushed over a cliff or set alight. The men would change into clean clothes and boots and leave their dirty clothes hidden away. The soldiers who had run away would take around four hours to get back to the town. Everyone should be back in their homes by then with no trace of having been out, and the dead would be buried and their families moved to safe houses, as would the injured and their families.
The men had been chosen from outlying villages and towns scattered over miles and miles, so it would be very difficult to track them down. All had means of returning home within a couple of hours. None from the town had taken part, so any men living there – in the same town as the German headquarters and garrison – who were challenged would show obvious signs of the truth: that they hadn’t been out of their beds.
Arriving back at their own safe house in the mountains, Pierre roused Madame Ponté. ‘Take care of Olivia. She has given birth to our child.’
‘Quoi? Ce n’est pas possible!’
‘It is possible, and it has happened. Sorry, Madame, we could not tell you. We had to keep it a secret, but now the child is born and Olivia needs your help.’
Snuggled up in Pierre’s arms, the baby asleep in a drawer made into a makeshift cot, the reality of their situation hit Theresa. ‘What are we going to do, Pierre? How can we keep him safe?’
‘I will have to take him to my parents’. There he will be safe. Ma mere, she will take care of him and rear him for us until we can go to him.’
Her heart screamed against this. She couldn’t go through that again. She couldn’t . . . and yet, she knew she had to. No more words were spoken, not by her and not by Pierre. Her sobs and his silent tears said all they needed to say.
The low, early-morning autumnal sun woke her. She stretched out her hand, and the void of Pierre not being there opened up a chasm of pain. Her fingers touched the folded note on his pillow, where it lay in the indent left by his head. She didn’t want to read it, knowing it would compound the physical pain she could already feel in her lead-weight heart. Compelled to do so, she unfolded it.
My darling, I am leaving early as goodbyes would be too painful. The journey will take me many days. I have a network of farms I can call at along the way. All will take us in and will care for us and give me clothes for our child. Those women who are breastfeeding children will not see our child go hungry. And those who are not will know someone nearby who is, so he will be fine. I have named him Jacques after my French grandfather, as he prospered and was a happy and good man. Luck and love followed him all of his life. I want that for our son.
My absence from the bank will implicate me, so that now I will have to go into hiding. They may think me one of the unfortunates who were killed. Whether it is safe for me to be at the house, I don’t know, but we will talk about this when I return.
Stay strong, my Olivia. That will be difficult for you with your son torn from you and me not by your side, but please try. One day this will all be over and we can be a family. Remember, you are the breath to my body. The blood that courses through my veins, and the life inside of my heart. I need you. Be there, be your whole self for when I return.
Pierre xxx
Her body folded. She couldn’t breathe. Be my whole self? How can I be that when my very soul has been torn from me for a second time? My children! I . . . WANT . . . MY . . . CHILDREN! Her screams came from the depths of her bowels. They scratched her throat and assaulted her own ears, but she couldn’t stop them.
‘What is it? Ma chérie, no. You must stop . . .’
The sight of Monsieur and Madame Ponté in their long, white nightdresses and with Monsieur missing his teeth and Madame’s curlers sticking out of her mobcap turned her screams to laughter – a painful laughter that she could not control. It stretched her stomach muscles and bruised her ribs and went on and on. A stinging slap to her face halted it.
‘Forgive me, ma chérie, I am sorry. You were hysterical.’
Through her sobs she reassured Madame that she was alright and that she had done the right thing, for if she hadn’t the madness that was pulling her towards it would have won, and she didn’t want that.
Once more her body wept, scrunching into
her body, into her sobs, soaking her in tears, and draining her of all feeling, leaving an empty shell.
‘When you reach the bottom, you can only come up, ma chérie. But it is you that must work hard to do so.’
She nodded. She knew Monsieur Ponté was right.
Sitting up sipping the hot coffee Madame had brought in for her a few minutes later, Theresa composed herself and began to work out a way of coping. The birth of her son had brought her daughter into vivid focus. For them she had to make it through this. For them she had to survive. She would write to her father and ask him to forbid whichever convent he had taken her daughter to from letting her out for adoption. Then she would collect her when she returned. This plan helped her. It gave her hope and a promise that one day she and Pierre and her daughter and their son would be a family. Pierre did not yet know of her daughter, but she knew he would understand and become a father to her. They would live in France, away from the stuffy English atmosphere with its social restrictions, and her children would be cocooned in love. Lying back, she thought: I will call my daughter Olivia. Yes, to me she is Olivia, and she will honour the real Olivia with the life that she has, and the Olivia that her mother became in order to help save the world and keep it as it should be and as she and her brother should know it . . .
1963
Lizzie let the book drop out of her hand. Theresa’s description of her heart being as heavy as lead exactly matched what her own felt like. But she couldn’t spill the tears it held for Rita and Ken, for Sarah and Richard and Ian and Harri. And, yes, for Patsy – poor lost Patsy, who should have had such a very different life. Because if she let one tear escape, like Theresa had, it would open a floodgate and she doubted she’d be able to stop.
