In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  But all that had finished in the dreadful, calamitous year of 1940. Now the vendange was a very small affair and though some vendangeurs still came from distant parts, it was almost impossible to travel freely across German-occupied France and, on the whole, local and largely female labour was used. The formerly ritualistic and joyous operation of gathering in the grapes had had to be scaled down, the number of pickers had been drastically reduced and everyone had to work twice as hard. The women themselves carried the mannequins which formerly had been the function of colporteurs, the men who loaded the carts and lorries.

  Each one had had their title, their place in the hierarchy and no one had dared overstep the functions of the other.

  Now it was different. Everyone mucked in. Not far from Dora, Jean, previously in charge, was himself moving along the vines delicately clipping the bunches which he had so lovingly tended, yet hating the thought that the product of his labours, a fine champagne, might eventually grace German tables and lubricate the throats of the conquerors.

  Dora looked fondly at her husband who, at that moment also took a break from his labour, stood upright and, catching her eye, waved. As he walked towards her she thought how much he had aged. His hair was now quite white and his brow furrowed; deep lines ran on either side of his mouth and even his previously tall and upright figure was slightly bent.

  The war had scarred Jean irrevocably. Not only the sorrow of seeing his country occupied by an alien force, but the humiliation of the surrender. France had boasted an army of over a million men, yet it had collapsed like a pack of cards due to the inadequacy of the generals and their old-fashioned ideas about conducting a war. He had felt betrayed by the Vichy government and almost from the moment the Germans had streamed into France he had helped to form one of the main pockets of the Resistance movement – known as réseaux – in the region, which had already played an important part in undermining the activities of the enemy. Although he had served with distinction in the first war and was a prominent local citizen, Jean had so far escaped suspicion largely on account of his age; he was now fifty-eight. It was not that they hadn’t been visited by the Gestapo – they had, several times. And as chief wireless operator working from a cleverly concealed room at the back of the house Dora had several times died a death as the Gestapo had searched the house; but because nothing had been found and they were considered ‘elderly’, so far they had led charmed lives.

  Dora had managed to reintegrate herself quite easily into the life of the household following her covert return to France. Speaking perfect French without an accent she had managed to conceal her English nationality and had told the authorities that she had been visiting her sister in Marseilles when France was overrun.

  Finally Jean reached her, and Dora looking up at him smiled. “It’s such a beautiful day. Sometimes I find it very hard to believe there’s a war on.”

  “And what a war.” Jean’s arm encircled her waist. “Thank God we are able to play some small part in it.”

  “I was thinking about the vendange we had in 1939, just before hostilities really started. Do you remember?”

  “I do, and it was a fine vintage. The last for some time.” Suddenly his manner changed and became brisk and practical. “Dora I have been thinking that we should move the wireless. I have been told that the devices for detection are improving and they are centering their searches on an area very near to us.”

  “But where can I move it?”

  “I think we shall have to move it north of Rheims.”

  “But Jean, how can I ...”

  “You will not go with it. They are going to send me a new operator. You will be able to teach him or her and then we shall move it out of this area for a time. It will take the heat away from us. That will be a good thing.”

  “But, Jean ...”

  “There will be plenty for you to do, my dear,” he said consolingly. “Never fear.”

  Dora shuddered. “I do fear, Jean. I fear for you. Every time you go out at night I am afraid you will not return. Sometimes I feel that I can’t live with the fear any longer. Oh, Jean I wish it was all over and peace would return.”

  Jean attempted to reassure her. “It will, my dear, and we shall be reunited with our precious Louise and your family again. So far we have been lucky. So far.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Dora felt suddenly afraid. “I feel you’re tempting fate.”

  But Jean was an optimist and he had that most priceless gift: patience. And with that patience came an even temper. He never felt hurried or out of control, even when he was planning the most dangerous assignments, and particularly when he was out on one; then he was a rock, a true leader of men. Jean’s outlook gave to Dora, whose vivid imagination often played tricks on her, a sense of strength, and in her more sanguine moments she believed with him that, if their luck held, together they would indeed outlast the war.

  Dora was a year older than Jean but she did not look it. Her hair was the colour of salt and pepper and she still had her rather mannish good looks – a firm strong chin, startling blue eyes, an air of resolution and dependability. She seldom wore make-up but her skin was good and unblemished. She led an active, largely outdoor life, and could have passed for forty-five any day.

  Most nights after Jean had gone out on one of his missions she sat upstairs at her wireless making contact with headquarters in London and receiving instructions which would be carried out in the following days or weeks.

  Doing vital work, like Jean, helped to take her mind off the danger in which they lived and, in a way, life was heightened and intensified for both of them.

  *****

  The doctor completed his examination and put his stethoscope back in his bag shaking his head gravely.

  “The strain of war has been too much for us all,” he murmured looking sadly down at his unconscious patient. Then, with an expressive gesture of the arm towards Connie, he took her by the elbow and led her out of the room. They walked in silence along the long corridor of the Palazzo Colomb-Paravacini, down the grand staircase to the drawing room overlooking the canal.

  “A drink?” Connie asked, but the doctor shook his head.

  “I have other calls to make. There are so many demands on my time.” He stood looking at Connie. “I must tell you my dear Constance, that absolutely nothing more can be done for my beloved old friend Paolo. You know we were at university together and I have been his doctor ever since I qualified? I love him and I would move mountains to be able to save him now. But his lungs have given up completely. He smoked too much and this latest bout of pneumonia has finished him.” He put his hand on her shoulder and gazed at her sadly. “It is just a matter of time. Keep him comfortable. He will probably never recover consciousness. At least he is spared the horrors we are living through now. What will become of us all I don’t know.” Shaking his head the doctor made for the door, followed by Connie. They paused on the threshold which led onto the jetty where the doctor’s gondola stood waiting. “And you, what will you do, my dear Connie?” he enquired solicitously.

  “You mean after he’s gone?” She shook her head. “I really don’t know. If the British Army gets as far as Venice I may try and rejoin my family in England; but who knows what will happen?”

  The doctor leaned conspiratorially towards her, as if he was afraid of being overheard. “While the Germans are in control you would do well to remain indoors. Now that we are the enemy and no longer their allies the Italians are in enough danger, but if they suspected you were English ...” He pressed her hand. “Better take care.”

  Connie had not loved Paolo when she married him. She had admired and respected him, but it was a case of a port in the storm rather than love. But he loved her; he adored her. He had long admired her, even before her marriage to Carson, but he was seventeen years her senior and it had seemed an impossible ideal.

  Because of his devotion, his tenderness, Connie had come to return his love and, sitting by his bedside cons
tantly in their last days alone together in the house, except for a small staff of servants greatly reduced from pre-war days, she was able to reflect on the emotional security and serenity Paolo had brought to her life and how much she would miss him.

  Italy had been defeated. On 8 September it had asked for an armistice whereupon German soldiers had occupied Rome. Troops of the British Eighth Army, having landed at Salerno, began their push towards Naples and the belly of Italy. Mussolini had been rescued by Hitler but had returned to establish a Fascist state, an ‘Italian Socialist Republic’ in the north of Italy.

  For the past two years Paolo’s health had been delicate. As the doctor said he had smoked too much and he had worried too much. He had once been an admirer of Mussolini, thinking him to be a godsend for the impoverished Italian nation, who seemed to have the approval and co-operation of the King. Now with Mussolini’s fall the Royal family was out on a limb – it had backed the wrong horse – and the collapse of Italy had further hastened Paolo’s deterioration. Finally, he had succumbed to a serious attack of pneumonia and now lay near death.

  Connie rose from her bedside vigil and walked restlessly to the window. Mentally, she was already making plans. There were still German officers in Venice, but the allies were getting near. She realised how much she had missed her children and longed to see them and the fresh green countryside of England once again.

  It was almost as though Paolo was already dead, forcing her, against her will, to make plans for the future.

  *****

  By the end of 1943 Alexander Martyn was a squadron leader, an ace with more kills than anyone else in his squadron. He had been decorated twice – awarded the DFC and bar – but, following another crash in September when he had been shot down while supporting the British Eighth Army in Salerno and sustained a broken leg and other injuries, he had been invalided home. After some weeks in hospital and a short convalescence he had been given a desk job until he should be fit to resume active service once more.

  A desk job in London was frustrating, but it meant being nearer to Minnie which was the only compensation as far as he was concerned. He had been loath to live with her in the flat she had shared with Dougie and they had moved back to Montagu Square, where they had been joyfully welcomed by Roberts who had declined to take shelter in the country as suggested by Lally, preferring to take care of the London house.

  Most nights when they were not on duty Alexander and Minnie changed into evening clothes and went out on the town, dining and dancing at Ciro’s, the Four Hundred or the Café Royal. Occasionally Roberts would cook and serve them a meal at home. A bottle of pre-war claret or Burgundy would be produced from the still extensive cellars, and it was almost possible to believe that this was a world at peace.

  They had both worked over Christmas but for New Year they had been free and Alexander had booked a table at the Café Royal where they had been joined by a party of friends. Alexander still used a stick and got round the dance floor with difficulty, but get round he did, determined to party the night away. His experience of war had made him intent on living life to the full, relishing every minute, and he soon realised that the fatalistic Minnie shared his attitude.

  At the sound of Alexander’s car Roberts opened the door and took his cap from him.

  “Is Mrs Fisher in, Roberts?” Alexander asked, idly turning over the mail that was on the hall table.

  “Mrs Fisher came home early, sir. She’s resting I believe.”

  “Oh?” Alexander looked surprised. “Is she not well?”

  “I understand her to be a little under the weather, sir. I offered to bring her tea but she preferred to go straight upstairs. I do hope it won’t upset your plans for the evening, Mr Alexander.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter a bit!” Alexander tried to conceal his anxiety but, despite his lameness, went upstairs two at a time.

  He gently pushed open the bedroom door and stood looking at Minnie in the half light. She appeared to be asleep. He tiptoed across and her eyelids fluttered. He sat down beside her and took her hand.

  “Darling? Are you OK?”

  Minnie opened her eyes. “I’m all right, really Alexander.”

  “What happened?”

  “I felt a little faint. They sent me home in a taxi.”

  “You should have called me.” Alexander squeezed her hand distractedly. “I hope you’re not coming down with the ‘flu.”

  Minnie was silent but the expression on her face worried Alexander all the more.

  “Minnie, I’m going to call the doctor,” he said getting to his feet, but she reached for his hand and held him back.

  “No Alexander, please ...” She pulled him down beside her, intensifying his unease.

  “Alexander,” she said falteringly, “I have seen a doctor.”

  Seriously alarmed by now Alexander leaned over her. “Oh, darling, tell me please, whatever is the matter?”

  “I’m pregnant Alexander. I ... do hope you won’t be cross.”

  She looked at him so fearfully that he wanted to burst out laughing. Instead he wrapped her gently in his arms and held her tightly to him. Gradually he could feel her taut body relax and he bent and kissed her.

  Finally, when at last he released her, she remained with her head resting against his shoulder.

  “I was so afraid you’d be annoyed.”

  “Darling, I’m thrilled,” he said, his face alight with joy. “I can’t tell you how thrilled. I only wish ...” he drew away from her and regarded her gravely, “well, you know what I wish. I wish we could be married.”

  He gently put her back against her pillows and strolled over to the mantelpiece. A fire glowed in the grate and he stood for a few moments gazing at the embers.

  “With a new life I feel I can begin again.” He turned towards her. “We could start all over together if only we knew what had happened to ... well.”

  He paused. Irene was a name they seldom mentioned. For four years there had been no news. The truth was that Alexander no longer knew how he really felt about her. It was as though she had already died, the period of mourning was over and he wished to start a new life. He and Minnie believed they had behaved as correctly as, in the circumstances and given the exigencies of wartime, it was possible to do. He had really no idea what he would do or how he would behave if some day Irene were to come in through that door.

  December 1943

  Dora drove carefully along the narrow, uneven road that led to the house, past the rows of desolate, frozen vines now lying dormant until the spring. The harvest had been very poor. Many of the négociants in Rheims and Epernay were not even troubling to make champagne. Their vats remained empty of new wine as the Germans made raids on the cellars emptying them of rare vintages. Sometimes it seemed as though the production of champagne had ceased altogether and many growers had allowed the grapes to rot on the vine. Jean had been unable to sell half of his harvest and had been forced to throw it away.

  Dora had been working all day at their office in Rheims where, in happier times, they had kept a small staff. Now she and Jean saw to the administrative details themselves. It was also a good cover as far as the occupying authorities were concerned.

  Jean did not make his own champagne but sold his grapes to négociants, though there had been talk of forming a cooperative of wine growers which had had to be abandoned. Maybe that would eventually be revived after the war.

  There had been another reason for Dora to work late on this particular evening. Jean was having an important meeting with the senior members of his réseau, and the trainee wireless operator, ‘Mathilde’ – a code name – had been left in charge of operations in the secret room at the back of the house.

  Mathilde was a young woman who had come from the Loire, ostensibly as a relation of the Parterres. She was a rather nervous, tense-looking young woman whose credentials for the job Dora had at first questioned. However there was no doubt as to her reliability or her patriotism. She had recei
ved no formal training but had impeccable references from the Loire circuit for whom she had acted as a courier. She also showed an aptitude for the work, a quick facility for mastering the codes and a steadiness in sending and receiving messages.

  Dora felt however that, although self-effacing to the point of embarrassment, Mathilde was an obtrusive presence in the house and she would be glad when she left.

  Soon she would move north to where the Allied landings were expected to take place, if they ever did. Some said it would be Normandy, some the Pas de Calais. So far they had had no warning as it was too risky.

  Dora parked the car in the barn – petrol was so scarce that it could only be used a few times a month – and made her way through the inky blackness to the house. She thought how strange it was that one got so used to danger one almost no longer felt afraid. There was usually a chill, a frisson of fear on waking in the morning and then, with the normal events of the day taking their course, it disappeared, though there were sometimes many surreptitious comings and goings of people not connected with the wine business. Inevitably word had got round that Jean was considered ‘hot’ by the authorities, though no one could ever catch him doing anything he shouldn’t be doing other than tending his vines.

  This perpetual sense of danger had helped to bring husband and wife closer together. At one time, before the war, there had been an estrangement but Jean regarded her return to France in wartime, when she could have remained safely in England, not only heroic but as a true mark of devotion, a strengthening of the bonds of their marriage.

  The house was always locked up, especially when an important clandestine meeting was taking place, and Dora, shivering with cold, was about to put her key in the lock of the back door with the aid of her torch when, to her surprise, it swung open. Inspecting the lock she saw that it had been broken. The kitchen was a large, comfortable traditional French kitchen where they usually ate, and where Jean had his meetings. With a mounting feeling of foreboding Dora crossed the floor and tried to switch on the lights but there was no electricity. Looking around for matches to light candles she was startled to see a beam of light in the corridor leading to the kitchen and, as it grew bigger, she put her hand to her mouth. From the beam of her own torch she was able now to see that that disorder prevailed in the room, as though there had been a fight.