by Robert Rigby
“We have a long walk,” Louis replied. “Then we rendezvous with a friend of mine, and he’ll take us closer to Lyon railway station.”
“And then?”
“And then,” Louis said, his face suddenly serious, “until you meet your final contact in the south, you’ll be on your own.”
SEVENTEEN
This was no gentle stroll in the countryside; it was more like a forced march. And this time, without stars to help guide the way, the night was pitch black. Louis refused to use a torch, saying that even a single narrow beam might be spotted from miles away by an alert crossing guard.
They were walking side by side along a narrow lane, Louis maintaining a punishing pace. Paul had struggled at first. But just as it had when Father Lagarde switched off the Bugatti’s headlights, Paul’s night vision kicked in, and soon he could see well enough to walk without stumbling. And now he had his second wind, he was comfortably matching Louis stride for stride.
Few words were exchanged, giving Paul plenty of time to think about the news of Jos Theys’s arrest. Jos had been right, Paul thought. There had to be a traitor in the Antwerp group. And after Jos, who would be next? Albert? Father Lagarde? Sabine? With one arrest leading to another, the Resistance movement in Belgium and northern France could collapse like a house of cards.
The night was deathly quiet. Occasionally the screech of a nocturnal bird cut through the air, or a small animal rustling in the roadside undergrowth. Otherwise only their footsteps broke the silence. Perfectly in time and as regular as a metronome, they sounded like a single person striding steadily through the darkness.
They took a left turn, heading south, and a few minutes later Louis came to a halt. “We’ll rest here and eat,” he said softly, nodding towards a gap in the hedge.
The night was still warm, but the rough grass in the little clearing was already damp with dew. Louis took off his jacket and sat on it, gesturing to Paul to do the same before delving into a canvas bag for the food. Paul sank to the ground, grateful for a short rest, though glad to be travelling again, he realized.
Sabine had departed early, and Louis and Paul had also left the house in daylight. In a town of twenty thousand people it was easier to go unnoticed during the day.
Following the course of the river for a mile or so outside the town, they had eventually arrived at the place Louis had decided would be their lay-up point. It was a small copse, off the track and out of sight of any passers-by.
They waited until well after nightfall before beginning the long trek that had brought them to this latest resting place.
Paul finished an apple and a hunk of cheese, thinking that they must have covered at least eight kilometres so far. But there were many more kilometres and many hours of travelling ahead before he would finally meet with the contact who would organize his escape across the Pyrenees.
“What’s the name of the contact in Lavelanet?” he asked.
“I don’t know his real name,” Louis replied, “and you know by now that even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. His code-name is Renard.”
Paul smiled. “The fox.”
“Let’s hope he has the fox’s cunning,” Louis said. “He’s heading the new Resistance movement down there.”
“And how will I know Renard?”
“You won’t; he’ll know you. He’ll be waiting when you reach Montpellier station.”
Paul shivered; the temperature was dropping quickly.
Louis noticed it too. “Put your coat on,” he said, getting to his feet and picking up his own jacket. “We’ll soon get warm.”
He was right. Paul quickly felt warmer as they strode purposefully on. Twenty minutes later Louis pointed to his left, leapt over a shallow ditch and began hiking across an open field.
Paul followed, struggling to catch up; the going was harder, as the field had been recently ploughed. By now he knew it was better not to waste his breath on questions that were unlikely to be answered.
After a couple of hundred metres they reached a low hedge and passed through a three-barred gate into a second field, which was wide and open. Up ahead, Paul could make out the outline of a wooded area, but before they reached it, Louis stopped. A wooden post had been hammered into the ground. A painted sign at head height stated simply: DEMARCATION LINE. DO NOT CROSS.
Paul stared. “Is this it?”
Louis nodded. “This is it.” He took a single step past the post and looked back at Paul. “I’m in the Free Zone and you’re in Occupied France.”
“But there’s nothing to stop anyone from crossing.”
“For the moment,” Louis agreed. “Just a post every so often, and here and there another sign like this. In other places it’s different; fences, wire, barriers, guards. And once the Germans get more organized it’ll change in remote places like this. But for now we must be thankful for what we have.” He laughed. “Or don’t have.”
Paul shook his head. It was hard to believe that nothing more than a wooden post divided the great nation of France in two. “Where do we go now?”
Louis pointed to the dark woodland lying ahead. “We need to get to the other side; it’s still quite a way. Then we’ll lay up again until daybreak.”
“And then?”
The night was at its darkest now, but even so, Paul could just see the slight smile on Louis’s face as he replied. “And then, I hope, there will be a pleasant surprise for you.”
It was more than pleasant; it was the height of luxury. Right then Paul wouldn’t have wanted to travel in any other way. He lay back in the hay listening to the horses’ hooves and the creaking, iron-rimmed wheels as the wagon made its slow progress away from Occupied France.
They were heading towards Lyon. At a speed of two horsepower, Paul calculated it would take at least a week to reach the city. But their immediate destination was a farm where they would transfer to a car, which would ferry them into the city and the Lyon-Perrache railway station.
That would be later. For the moment, with his aching feet and stiff back, Paul was happy to make the most of his first-ever ride in a haywagon.
The wagon was being driven by an old, pipe-smoking farmer, who had said nothing when he pulled up to collect them soon after first light. He simply nodded to Louis, who nodded back. Once his passengers climbed aboard and were comfortably settled in the hay, he flicked the leather reins a couple of times and the two horses plodded on their way.
Paul and Louis shared the last of the bread and cheese, and as the early autumn sun climbed in the sky, they both dozed off. A truck chugged by in the opposite direction and someone on a bicycle shouted good morning, getting no reply from the farmer. Birds were singing; the sky was cloudless; the horses walked slowly on, and Paul for a while slipped into that blissful state where he wasn’t quite certain if he were awake or asleep.
He was soon asleep for real though, and dreaming – another nightmare. Two German soldiers were chasing down his father. Then it wasn’t his father, but Paul himself. The Germans were closing in on him and one was raising a submachine-gun. “Halt! Halt or I fire!”
Paul woke with a start. For a few seconds, cushioned in soft hay and staring up at the sky, the dream still vivid, he was totally disorientated. Then he heard a horse snort and stamp its hoof, and everything fell into place. But not quite everything. The wagon had stopped moving. Paul heard an engine and then raised voices.
Cautiously, he sat up. The slight movement was enough to make Louis stir and wake. He yawned loudly and began to speak.
“Where are—?”
Paul moved like a flash, clamping a hand over Louis’s mouth and shaking his head urgently.
Realizing that something was not right, Louis nodded. Paul moved his hand away and they strained to hear what was being said. The hay and the high sides of the wagon muffled the voices, but they could tell the farmer was arguing with another man.
They heard hurried footsteps on the road and tensed as someone approached the back of the wagon.<
br />
“Louis?”
Louis looked at Paul and shook his head.
“Louis, it’s all right. It’s me; Georges.”
“Georges!” Louis snapped. “Why the hell didn’t you say something before?”
“I was trying to explain to my father that he can’t take you to the farm. The police are checking vehicles. They’ve blocked the road up ahead.”
The new arrival nodded a greeting to Paul.
“Are they looking for us?” Paul asked.
Georges shook his head. “When I came through they said it was just routine, but you never know. Get in the car, we’d better move fast. I’ll take us the back route to Lyon.”
In seconds they were off the wagon and into an old Renault. Georges started the ignition and with a crunching of gears which would have made Father Lagarde cringe, the car shot off down a side road.
Paul looked back through the rear window. The wagon hadn’t moved.
The city of Lyon was huge and even busier than Antwerp. But there was another difference that Paul couldn’t quite put his finger on – until he realized it was the absence of German soldiers. He was used to seeing many grey army uniforms in the city squares and streets but here in the Free Zone there were none. It was almost as though the war was not happening.
“I can’t stay with you for long,” Louis told Paul as they approached the station, “I need to get back to the farm with Georges. If it’s safe.”
“Will you go home tonight?”
“Maybe,” Louis said with a shrug. “You did the right thing in the wagon, shutting me up before I could shoot my mouth off.”
“It didn’t matter though,” Paul said.
“But it might have done. You were alert, aware. You must stay like that all the time now.”
Georges stopped the car close to the station, a huge old building, and Paul and Louis got out. Queuing for a ticket to Montpellier took just a few minutes, and then Louis led Paul to a quiet corner where they could speak without being overheard.
“I’ll see you through the barrier and then I’ll slip away,” he said. “And remember, Renard will meet you at Montpellier station. He’ll find you and make himself known.”
They shook hands. Suddenly Paul was aware that for the remainder of his journey south he would be on his own.
“Thank you,” he said, “for everything you’ve done.”
Louis shrugged his shoulders modestly. Then he watched as Paul approached the barrier, where several French police officers stood. He gave his documents to the closest one and waited while they were thoroughly scrutinized.
“Why are you travelling to Montpellier?” the officer asked.
“To work,” Paul answered confidently. “My family have friends there; they’ve offered me a job.”
“What sort of job?”
“In a bank; I’m good with figures.”
The officer hesitated for a moment before handing back the documents. “Have a good journey.” He winked. “And put a few francs into my account when you get there, will you?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Paul said with a grin.
He went through the barrier, tucked his documents into the inside pocket of his jacket and then looked back.
There was no sign of Louis; he had slipped away, exactly as he had said he would.
And Paul was alone.
EIGHTEEN
Josette had been in agony since seeing her father and Gaston Rouzard plotting together in the factory office, and as the days passed her despair did not diminish.
She didn’t want to believe it, of course, but there was no escaping what she had witnessed: her father, the man she loved and respected above all others, was a collaborator.
There was no one she could speak to. She couldn’t talk to her mother; for all Josette knew, her mother might also have turned traitor. She couldn’t talk to her grandmother because she couldn’t bear to see the anguish the revelation would bring to Odile. And she couldn’t talk to Didier Brunet because he had warned her about having anything to do with Jean-Pierre Dilhat, making it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t be involved himself.
But Jean-Pierre was in danger. She’d heard Rouzard tell her father they had to do something about him. That could only mean one thing; they were going to betray him to the authorities, reveal that he was leading a fledgling Resistance movement in the town. And as a local gendarme officer, Rouzard might be preparing to make the arrest at any moment.
Josette had considered warning Jean-Pierre. But to do that, she would have to admit that her own father was one of the collaborators out to destroy him and the Resistance. She couldn’t do it. Not yet. Despite everything, she still loved her father. And love just couldn’t turn to hatred in an instant.
But why had a fierce patriot who loved his country suddenly turned traitor? It was inexplicable.
Recalling her grandmother’s words, all Josette could think was that the horrors Henri had witnessed in the First World War, coupled with the death of Venant, had led him to decide that nothing was worth fighting and dying for. He simply wanted an end to it, she reasoned. No more war, no more fighting. Even if that meant betraying a young man devoted to the cause of freedom and liberty. In her head it almost made sense, but not in her heart.
She had hardly spoken to her father for the past few days, avoiding him whenever possible. It wasn’t easy when they lived in the same house and shared the same workspace. So she was grateful that Henri was out for the day, seeing a raw-material supplier somewhere over in Foix.
Josette was in the office, half-heartedly going through the accounts, unable to focus on her work for more than a few minutes at a time. It was early afternoon and she had not gone home to have lunch with her mother. There would almost certainly have been questions; both parents had noticed how subdued and withdrawn she had been, so unlike her normal self. Up till now she’d fobbed them off, saying she felt unwell. But she couldn’t go on making the same excuse.
So here she was, shut in the office, away from everyone and everything. She hadn’t even bothered to eat; over the past few days she’d lost her appetite anyway. What did food matter at a time like this?
A large accounts ledger was open on the desk in front of her. As she stared at the figures, they blurred before her eyes. With a sigh, she went back to the top of the row and began to count again.
Suddenly, Josette threw down her pen. It was no good, she had to speak to someone; she was going crazy. She got up from her desk, hurried from the office and down the stairs onto the factory floor.
The racket of the looms and loading machines thundered in her ears. She was going to speak to Didier after all. He would understand. He would tell her what to do.
As she rounded the corner she almost bumped into the factory foreman, Marcel Castelnaud, and one of the loom operators, Yvette Bigou. They were huddled together, deep in conversation, but quickly moved apart as they saw her. The din of the machines prevented Josette from hearing what they’d said, but both looked embarrassed.
Marcel was quickest to recover his composure. He was a small, neat man in his early fifties, who always had a smile on his face, making him popular with the factory workforce.
“Ah, Josette,” he beamed. “Yvette and I were talking about the new order that’s come in.”
It was an obvious lie, but at that moment Josette just wanted to get to Didier.
Marcel stood in her way, still grinning. “It will mean extra shifts for the girls.” He turned to the sour-faced Yvette. “That will keep you all happy, eh, Yvette?”
Josette didn’t like Yvette and she knew the feeling was mutual. Yvette was a whiner and a gossip, always ready to dish the dirt. And having worked at the factory for more than twenty years, she liked to strut around as though she owned the place. But Josette’s father said Yvette was the best loom operator he had, so he reckoned it was worth putting up with her.
Yvette gave a shrug of indifference, but seeing Josette was waiting for an answer she sai
d reluctantly, “I suppose so.”
Civilities were completed and Josette had no desire to prolong the conversation. “I have to speak to Didier,” she said quickly, and hurried away before either had the chance to reply.
Didier was in his workshop, hunched over a bench, his face a mask of concentration as he carefully filed at a metal spool, gripped securely in a vice.
“Didier?” Josette called from the doorway.
He didn’t respond at first.
“Didier!” Josette called again, much louder.
Didier looked up and nodded. “I thought you’d be here soon enough,” he said, putting down the file.
“Why? What do you mean?” Josette said, puzzled.
“Surely you’ve heard?”
“Heard what?”
Didier moved closer. “Everyone in the factory is talking about it. Makes me sick; they should mind their own business, the lot of them. It was Yvette Bigou who saw it, of course; she was bound to, wasn’t she? She just happened to be there at the right moment and couldn’t wait to get back here to spread the news.”
“Didier!” Josette shouted. “Will you please tell me what you’re talking about?”
Didier sighed and shook his head. “Jean-Pierre Dilhat has been arrested.”
NINETEEN
Paul was being watched. Lyon-Perrache was a major station with a huge, bustling concourse. Yet someone had picked him out from the crowd, he was certain. He could feel eyes boring into him, without being able to spot the watcher.
For a while, he thought it was his imagination, a consequence of being suddenly alone after spending the previous days in such close company. But he soon knew it wasn’t his imagination; someone was spying on him.
Paul desperately wanted to get on the train and be on the move again. But he was early; the train had yet to arrive. He had no alternative but to wait and stay alert, like Louis had told him. That included remembering what not to do. Don’t stare at people and they won’t stare at you. Don’t pace about looking anxious. Stay calm and stay quiet. Sabine and Louis had stressed each of these instructions. But it was almost impossible when he knew someone was eying him.
