by Robert Rigby
“Many French people have had enough of war,” Odile continued. “They can’t face any more, so they put it to the back of their minds, ignore it completely. That way, it’s almost as though it isn’t happening.”
“But it is happening,” Josette said, her anger rising. “And it won’t go away unless we all try to do something about it. But Papa says I mustn’t get involved, and Didier Brunet thinks the same…”
“Ah, Didier,” Odile said, “I know his family. His father was wounded in the last war and he never really got over what he’d been through. He died when young Didier was about five, I think. Did you know that?”
Josette shook her head. “What happened?”
“An accident,” Odile said sadly, “in the mountains. He fell, although some say…’ Her voice trailed off for a moment. “I think he couldn’t live any longer with what he’d seen. Perhaps that’s why Didier doesn’t want to get involved. And as for your mother and father—”
“What?” Josette said. “What about them?”
“Your father fought in the last war too.”
“He never speaks about it.”
Odile sighed. “What is there to say now? It’s over, the people we loved have gone, and we haven’t learned the lessons. Try to imagine what it’s been like for your mother, Josette. In the last war she waited for the man she loved to come home, dreading every day that a letter would arrive telling her he’d been killed. Instead they married and had a son. And then twenty years later that son is killed, within days of a new war starting.”
She looked towards the window again and Josette found herself thinking that, for the first time, her grandmother looked old and tired. She considered her words carefully before replying. “Yes, I suppose … I suppose I can understand. But what about those who are actually siding with the Nazis, the collaborators?”
“I can’t answer for them,” her grandmother said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Not everyone has the principles that you do.”
“It’s awful that people can’t trust each other any more,” Josette said, growing angry again. “You see it, everywhere. In the factory, people I’ve known all my life are like strangers, whispering in corners. It’s suddenly all so …” she paused, searching for the right words “… uncomfortable and … unsettling.”
“I see it too,” Odile said. “People are afraid.”
“Even old friends,” Josette said. “People you always thought you could rely on. You know the gendarme officer, Gaston Rouzard, Papa’s friend. He’s been here for ever. I’m sure he’s a collaborator.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“I’ve seen him. Spying, listening. I know he was listening when Jean-Pierre Dilhat was speaking at the café.”
“Speaking about what?”
“Taking action, but being careful, secretive. Using codenames instead of real names, that sort of thing.”
“Dangerous talk.”
“I know, but when Gaston left I followed him…”
“Josette!”
“He didn’t see me, but I watched him writing in a notebook. He must have been noting down everything Jean-Pierre said.”
“Josette, you must not go around making accusations.”
“I haven’t told anyone; no one but you.”
A sudden burst of rainfall thumped on the conservatory roof like machine-gun fire, making them both look upwards.
“I worry about you, Josette,” Odile said. “You have such a quick temper.”
“Like you?”
“Yes, like me, but that’s not good. Sometimes I wish you were a little more like your father. Calmer.”
Henri Mazet stood on the factory floor, watching the raindrops pound down onto the building’s huge glass skylights.
Summer was over, although even during the height of the season, the closeness of Lavelanet to the Pyrenees meant that a sudden downpour or even a violent storm was always possible. September and October usually brought further days of glorious sunshine, with azure skies and fierce heat. Soon though, the autumn nights would turn bitterly cold, however strongly the sun blazed during the day.
As Henri watched the rain he gently smoothed down the bristles of his moustache with his right index finger. He had a lot on his mind. Production in the factory had to be kept up; his wife, Hélène, showed no signs of emerging from the depression that had struck her since the loss of their son; and his daughter, Josette – she appeared to want to take on the entire German army and win the war single-handedly.
Henri sighed at the thought of war. It was as though there had been no true peace in Europe since the end of the First World War. Nations had steadily built up their arsenals; politicians and generals had bullied and threatened and invaded their neighbours; just over the mountains in Spain the vicious civil war had only recently ended. And now France was in turmoil again, the country and its people divided. Henri wanted only peace, a real and permanent peace this time. But he knew his responsibilities; he would do his duty, however unpopular that might prove to be.
Henri was alone in the factory. The machines were still and silent, the main doors locked. He glanced again at the rain, then walked back towards his office. He hoped some better weather would last into autumn, as it usually did. It was important for many reasons, not least because sunshine generally put a smile on the faces on the factory floor.
As Henri walked along the aisles of machines, he heard the bell ring at the entrance door. He checked his watch; his visitor was exactly on time.
Josette clutched the umbrella her grandmother had insisted she take and hurried through the rain, thinking about their conversation, and especially about her father and Didier.
She understood now their reluctance to become involved in the fight for freedom – but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to change their minds.
Her eyes hardened as she thought about the collaborators who lurked in and around Lavelanet, people like the gendarme officer, Gaston Rouzard. There could be no understanding and no forgiveness for people like him. As far as Josette was concerned, they should be rounded up and made to face the firing squad. They were the scum of the earth and deserved no mercy. That was the way it had always been with traitors. And the way it should be now.
Josette had to pass the factory on her way home. Approaching, she saw the light burning in her father’s first-floor office. He must be working late. Again.
The rain showed no sign of relenting, so she hurried across the street, deciding to collect her father so they could walk home together. She was going to be better with him, she told herself; less judgemental, more understanding, more tolerant. Papa deserved that.
The front door was unlocked. “Typical.” Josette sighed to herself. Burglars could empty the safe of the weekly wage packets and Papa wouldn’t notice.
She left the soaking umbrella on the entrance mat and climbed the stairs. The steady rain pounding on the roof drowned the sound of her footsteps as she walked along the corridor. But just before she reached the corner by the office she stopped. She could hear men’s voices, her father’s and another she did not recognize. She couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She pressed herself against the wall.
The office was half-windowed. Josette knew that if she peered around the corner she would see whoever was inside the room. Slowly, she edged forward, feeling guilty for spying on her father but certain that all was not right. Inch by inch, she craned her neck closer to the corner. And then she saw.
They were sitting facing each other – her father and Gaston Rouzard.
Josette drew back, her mind racing. Her father, meeting in secret with Gaston. What did it mean? What could it mean?
And then, as she heard Rouzard’s voice, she got her answer – the answer she dreaded. “And as for Jean-Pierre Dilhat; we must do something about him, Henri. We must.”
Josette felt dizzy, stunned. For a moment she felt as though her legs would give way and she might faint. She leaned against the wall
, breathing deeply and hardly able to see. The voices were blurred now, like her muddled thoughts and cloudy vision.
She clenched both hands into fists, forcing her fingernails into the flesh of her palms until they hurt so much that all she could think of was the pain. The dizziness had gone. She wasn’t going to faint; she wouldn’t allow herself to faint. Not for a couple of traitors, even if one of them was her father.
Silently, she hurried away.
FOURTEEN
“Your name is?”
“Philippe Héroux.”
“And your age?”
“Seventeen.”
“Your date of birth?”
“The seventh of May, nineteen twenty-three.”
“And why are you travelling?”
“My cousin and I are going to see our grandmother, she’s very ill.”
“I see. And where does your grandmother live?”
“In Dole.”
Sabine nodded. “That was very good, especially getting the date of birth right without hesitating. Well done, Paul.”
“Thanks.”
“No!” Sabine thumped the arm of her chair in frustration. “How many times must I say it? You’re Philippe, not Paul! Paul doesn’t exist while you’re with me!”
“I’m sorry, I thought—”
“No, you didn’t. You didn’t think! And you must be thinking all the time. That’s the oldest trick in the book, and you fell for it.”
“But if I’m questioned, they won’t know my real name.”
Sabine leaned forward in her chair. “How do you know what they know? You have no idea what they know and neither do I. That’s why you must be Philippe Héroux at every moment. Your papers say you’re Philippe Héroux and you have a travel permit in the name of Philippe Héroux. That’s who you are. And if you want to survive, you’d better believe it.”
“All right, I’m sorry,” Paul snapped irritably, angry with himself rather than anything Sabine had said. She was right; he’d made a stupid mistake. They had practised the cover story endlessly and Paul thought he was completely ready for the journey they were about to make.
“I won’t get it wrong again.”
“I hope not,” Sabine said, getting up, “for both our sakes.”
She was dressed very differently from the night when they had first met. She wore a dark grey pleated skirt and a woollen jumper in a lighter shade of grey. She had plain black shoes on and now, as Paul watched, she slid into a grey gabardine raincoat, which she belted tightly. Finally she pushed most of her hair under a black beret, and then checked her appearance in a wall mirror.
“Suitably plain and grey,” she told her reflection. “Certainly not someone who would stand out in a crowd.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Paul said, instantly feeling his cheeks redden.
Reflected in the mirror, he saw Sabine raise her eyebrows and look at him. “Well, I would. I don’t want to be noticed.” She smiled. “It’s going to be difficult enough to make the Germans or the French police believe the tall, handsome, fair-haired young man – who looks more English than French – is actually my cousin. I don’t want to give them any help.”
Paul blushed even more. “Do I really look more English than French?”
“Are you kidding?” she said with a laugh. “You look more English than … than the Tower of London.”
“It’s from my father. His father was English, and I think before that—”
“Philippe!”
Paul stopped mid-sentence. Sabine’s reflected eyes were boring into his.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m Philippe Héroux. And I’m travelling with my cousin to see our grandmother in Dole. She’s very ill.”
Sabine sighed and turned to face Paul, her dark brown eyes softening. “All right, just for a moment I’ll speak to you as Paul, but after this it’s Philippe, and only Philippe. Understood?”
Paul nodded and Sabine returned to her chair. “I don’t know the details and I don’t want to,” she said, “but I do know that something terrible must have happened to you in Belgium and that now you’re in terrible danger. That’s why you’re here and that’s why everyone is working so hard to get you to freedom. Am I correct?”
Paul nodded again but said nothing.
“Whatever happened, I can see that it’s hurting you deeply. It was obvious from the moment you arrived. I’m very sorry for you, and I realize you can’t forget what happened, that’s impossible, but from now you must force it to the back of your mind. You must be Philippe and not Paul; you must think and act as Philippe. Because it’s not just your life that’s at stake, it’s mine and the other members of my group. I’m going to do everything I can for you, Paul, but you must play your part too; you must take some responsibility. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I can,” Paul answered instantly. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”
Sabine stood up. She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Then get your case and jacket and we’ll be on our way – Philippe.”
Paul’s stay at the isolated farm had been brief. On the first night, Father Lagarde had departed after a quick meal. Paul was shown to a bedroom. It was his first time in a proper bed for several days and he sank wearily into the soft feather mattress and instantly into a deep sleep.
He woke nine hours later to learn from Sabine that Father Lagarde had radioed a message confirming his safe arrival back home, with no further mishaps on the return journey.
Paul was relieved by the news. As he devoured fried eggs and cured ham he thought about the way both Father Lagarde and Albert had risked everything to ferry him across Belgium and down into France. They had ignored the danger to themselves, done their job and then returned to their everyday lives. There had been scares, but luck had been on their side. And Paul knew that neither barge captain nor priest would hesitate to help the next escapee. And the next. And the one after that. They would help for as long as the war lasted or their luck held.
Paul finished his meal, sat back in his chair and took in his new surroundings. His eyes came to rest on a framed photograph of Sabine and her parents. He instantly thought of his own parents, and the dreadful fear over the fate of his mother returned. Where was she? Locked in some dank, airless prison cell? Suffering at the hands of Nazi torturers? Was she even alive? The thoughts were unbearable. Paul prayed that word would come through that she had been released and was safe. But with each passing day his doubts and his fears increased.
And a new horror had entered his mind. The picture of his father lying dead on the ground was already imprinted on his brain, and a second, almost unbearable image had joined it. Paul saw his father’s lifeless body being dragged away, flung into the back of a lorry and then thrown into an unmarked grave on the outskirts of the city. Each time the nightmare came, he woke in a cold sweat. And as he lay in the darkness waiting for sleep to return, he told himself that one day he would return to Antwerp to find his father’s body and give him a proper burial.
But there was little time to dwell on dark thoughts as the remainder of Paul’s day was spent working with Sabine on his new identity and their cover story. He didn’t even know if Sabine Simorre was the real name of the young woman who patiently, but relentlessly, went over and over each detail. Many agents had started using codenames as an added precaution, she said. Paul didn’t press for more information.
In the evening, Sabine’s parents returned from the fields and shared a dinner of steamed chicken and potatoes, which was eaten mainly in silence. Paul was not told the name of Sabine’s parents; he was quickly learning the “need to know” rules. He asked no questions about the farm. He didn’t know if animals grazed in the pastures, or if crops had recently been harvested in the fields, or if champagne grapes, almost ready for picking, still clung to the vines. He didn’t need to know so he didn’t ask.
With the meal over and little to talk about, Paul turned in early. But this time sleep didn’t come easily. The f
eather mattress seemed too soft, and when he finally drifted off, it was into a troubled sleep. Then the nightmare returned.
But now Paul was about to set out on the next leg of his flight to safety. He slipped his jacket on and caught his reflection in the mirror. This time he would be travelling openly, in full view of any potential enemy. From now on, he was Philippe Héroux, and he had to play his part perfectly.
He picked up his case and followed Sabine out into the yard, where her father waited behind the wheel of an ancient, open-backed farm truck.
Paul guessed the vehicle was as old, if not older, than Father Lagarde’s Bugatti, but, unlike the racing car, it was more or less a wreck. The bodywork was rusted, the thin tyres virtually tread-less and the wooden side panels were rotted and cracked.
Twenty or more hessian sacks, all tied at the neck with thick string, were stacked on the back. Sabine saw Paul glance at them as they clambered up into the cab. “We have to be taking something somewhere in case we’re stopped,” she said by way of explanation.
They travelled with the windows wound down. The cab was cramped and hot, and smelled of oil and the farmyard. Paul gazed out at the unfamiliar countryside, taking little in, reminding himself constantly that his name was Philippe Héroux, and running through Sabine’s instructions in case they were questioned: answer clearly and briefly; don’t be hesitant or uncertain, but don’t be too helpful or say too much – as though desperate to say the right thing.
The first part of the journey was uneventful, with little traffic on the roads, until they reached the outskirts of Reims. Sabine’s father brought the truck to a standstill in a quiet side street.
“We get out here,” Sabine told Paul.
She kissed her father on the cheek and Paul heard him whisper, “Come back safely.”
They climbed down from the cab, and before shutting the door, Paul thanked the man whose name he would never know.
Sabine’s father gave him a half-smile and a nod. “Good luck.”
Belching oily smoke, the truck chugged slowly away. As soon as it had turned the corner, Sabine led Paul down a narrow passageway between two cottages, then through a gate into a minute backyard.
