by Hilary Green
‘Mon Dieu! What a collection!’ Luke said. ‘Where did they all come from?’
They were indeed, a motley assortment. There were two fairly modern Renault saloons, which looked as if they might have belonged to a prosperous bourgeois family, though they were now covered in mud and scratches; three tradesmen’s vans, two of which had been adapted to run on gazogène and two ancient Citroëns.
Xavier shrugged and grinned.
‘The vans came with the men who drive them, when they decided to join us. That one there,’ pointing to one of the Citroëns, ‘was given to us by the curé of St Marc’s in Dun-les-Places, as a gesture of support. The two Renaults we “borrowed” from families who were being a bit too helpful to the Boche. Now, Mademoiselle Christine, where shall we start?’
For the rest of the afternoon, Christine demonstrated how to clean spark plugs and adjust points and fan belts, as well as how to check oil and water and brake fluid and tyre pressures.
‘Air filters should be changed from time to time and you should top up the batteries with distilled water, but you won’t be able to get hold of that unless you go to a garage. Failing all else, you could use the water from the spring if you filter it through a piece of cloth.’ She straightened up and wiped her greasy hands. ‘That’s about it. Anything more complicated will need a proper mechanic with the right equipment.’
‘Mademoiselle, we are in your debt,’ Xavier said. ‘If only you were not leaving us tomorrow. I should appoint you chief engineer, in charge of all these.’
Christine looked at her brother and sighed.
‘I’m sorry. We have to go. But I’m sure you’ll manage quite well without me.’
As they returned to the main camp, the boy on the motorcycle rode in and spoke urgently to Xavier and a few minutes later, the van Christine had repaired that morning drove away with three of his men inside.
‘What’s up now, I wonder,’ Luke said, but no explanation was forthcoming.
The evening meal was over, and Cyrano had returned from his scheduled radio transmission when the van came bumping back along the track and pulled up in the centre of the clearing. The three men jumped out and one called out, ‘We’ve got another one!’
Luke and Christine joined the men who were converging on the van, in time to see the rear doors opened and a slight figure dragged out, bound and with his head covered by a sack, reviving painful memories of their own arrival the day before.
‘Pierre sent a message to say he’d caught him snooping round the pharmacy,’ the man said. ‘Told Pierre he was looking for some friends but wouldn’t say who.’
‘Bring him over here. Let’s have a look at him,’ Xavier said.
The captive was shoved forward into the firelight. The sack was pulled off and Xavier grabbed him by the shoulder.
‘Now, it’s no use lying, if you know what’s good for you. What were you doing?’
Luke sprang forward. ‘Xavier, it’s all right! We know him. He’s a friend.’ He caught hold of the newcomer’s arm. ‘Rollo! What in the name of God are you doing here?’
Chapter 13
‘Luke! Thank God! Tell these goons to untie me!’
The words were defiant, but Rollo presented a very different appearance from the cocky youth they had got to know on board the Madeleine. He had a black eye and there was dried blood around his nostrils, and his voice shook. Luke put an arm around his shoulders and could feel that he was trembling.
‘It’s OK, Rollo. You’re safe now. These people are on our side.’ He looked at the Maquis leader. ‘Xavier, please let him go. He’s the son of the boatman we were travelling with.’
‘What is he doing here, that’s what I want to know,’ Xavier growled, but he signed to one of the men to cut the ropes around Rollo’s wrists.
Luke led him over to a log by the fire.
‘Sit down. I’m sorry you’ve had a rough time, but the same happened to us yesterday.’
‘I had to come. There’s an important message…’ Rollo’s voice was still hoarse and uncertain.
‘It’s OK. Take your time. Xavier, can he have a cup of wine?’
Christine knelt by them with a tin mug in her hand.
‘Here, give him this. Water was what I wanted more than anything.’
Rollo gulped the water, sniffed hard and muttered his thanks.
Xavier handed Luke a second mug.
‘Give him a swig of this. It’s marc.’
The boy sipped, coughed, drank some more and sat back, straightening his shoulders.
Xavier said, ‘Now then. What’s all this about?’
Rollo looked at Luke. ‘You can’t come back to the Madeleine. She’s been requisitioned by the Boche.’
‘Requisitioned!’ Luke and Christine spoke together.
‘They came on board yesterday afternoon and searched the boat from bow to stern. Thank God they didn’t find the secret compartment! Then they said she was needed to carry equipment. They wouldn’t say what, or where to, except that we would be going north. So that means up the Yonne, maybe along the Seine to Paris or the Channel. So it’s no good to you, and anyway they’ve put a permanent guard on board to make sure we do as we’re told.’
Luke and Christine looked at each other.
‘Now what?’ he said.
She shook her head helplessly.
‘Rollo, it’s very good of you to come all this way to tell us. I’m so sorry you’ve been so badly treated.’
He shrugged, ‘I didn’t want to tell this lot who I was looking for. I didn’t know if they could be trusted.’
‘How did you know about the pharmacy?’ Cyrano had been listening to the conversation.
‘Luke said he’d taken you to a pharmacy in Corbigny. I didn’t know which one, so I tried them all. When I got to the third one, the pharmacist told me to wait. Then he locked me in a room until these thugs came to fetch me.’
‘It’s exactly what happened to us,’ Christine told him.
Luke looked at Cyrano apologetically.
‘I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Well, it’s just as well you did, under the circumstances,’ Cyrano responded. ‘Rollo, the Germans didn’t try to stop you leaving the boat?’
‘I told them I was going to visit my girlfriend in Jonches. I said I’d be staying the night.’
‘And you’re sure you weren’t followed?’
‘Yes. Anyway, Jonches is in the opposite direction. I started off that way and then doubled back.’
‘You’ve done very well.’ He looked at Luke and Christine. ‘The question is, what are you two going to do now?’
‘I suppose,’ Luke said slowly, ‘we could go back to Auxerre and see if there are any boats going our way who would be prepared to take us.’
‘No! You mustn’t!’ Rollo said. ‘Auxerre is swarming with Boche. It wasn’t just our boat that was searched. The rumour is that there’s been a big break out of POWs from somewhere and the Gestapo think some of them may have stowed away on barges.’
‘That’s bad news,’ Cyrano said. ‘If they are looking for escaped POWs, it means there will be extra vigilance on the trains as well.’
‘We’re stuck, then,’ Luke said.
‘It seems to me, ‘Cyrano said, ‘that you are probably safer staying here than trying to go on – at least until things settle down.’
Brother and sister exchanged looks.
‘Could we stay, really?’ Christine asked. ‘Would Xavier let us?’
‘And keep my resident garage mechanic?’ Xavier responded with a grin. ‘Why not?’
‘That’s a point,’ Luke said. ‘If we do stay, I don’t want to be just an extra mouth to feed. I want to join in, be part of what you are doing.’
‘You mean you want to fight with us? Of course! You are a big, strong young man. Can you use a gun?’
‘Yes. I used to go pigeon shooting with my father before the war.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Cyran
o said. ‘I suggested you might hang on here for a bit because you’d be safer. I didn’t mean you to risk your life in the fighting.’
‘But why not?’ Luke said passionately. ‘I’m old enough. If … when I get back to England, I’ll join up. I’ll be risking just as much then.’
‘Maybe,’ Cyrano agreed. ‘But at least there you will be properly trained.’
‘How much training does it need to use a rifle? Anyway, from what I’ve seen there isn’t all that much fighting going on here.’
‘That may be about to change,’ Cyrano said.
‘Then Xavier will need all the men he can find. Cyrano, I can’t stay here as a … a passenger. If I’m staying, it has got to be as a member of the Maquis.’
Cyrano lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender.
‘It’s not my decision. It’s between you and Xavier.’
‘And I say he’s welcome,’ Xavier said. ‘You are both welcome.’ He looked at Rollo. ‘What about you, my friend?’
Rollo shook his head. ‘I have to go back. My father needs me to help manage the boat – and I don’t want the Boche to come looking for me if I don’t turn up.’
‘How will you get back?’
‘The same way I got to Corbigny; I borrowed a bike. Can you take me back there tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’ Xavier stood up. ‘So, now it is time to eat, and to celebrate the addition of two new members. Come!’
‘There’s just one thing, Cyrano,’ Christine said quietly as the others moved away. ‘Our mother will be worried out of her mind. We agreed that when we got back to England, we would ask the BBC to put something in their messages personelles – coded of course – to let her know we were safe. We managed to send a letter from Digoin, but that was more than a week ago and she will be wondering what has happened to us since. Is there any chance you could contact someone back at home and arrange for a message to be broadcast, to let her know we’re safe?’
‘I’m sure that could be done,’ he said. ‘You concoct a suitable coded message and I’ll put it in my next transmission and ask for it to be passed on to the BBC.’
She thanked him with a smile that expressed more than simple gratitude.
That evening, as darkness fell, one of the men produced an accordion and began to play a popular love song. Then, Cyrano got out his flute and joined in. Sitting in the glow of the campfire, Christine felt happier than she had for days.
Isabelle stepped back from the big kitchen-range and ran her hand over her forehead. These days, she seemed to have a perpetual headache and the unseasonably warm weather was not helping. One anxiety seemed to be piled on another, until she no longer knew which was the most oppressive. The constant nagging uncertainty about the whereabouts of her children and the safety of her husband would have been enough to worry about, without a load of explosives hidden in her wine cellar and two German soldiers living in the house; and on top of everything, her father was becoming increasingly querulous and demanding. He resented the presence of the Germans and seemed unable to understand that she had no option but to accommodate them; but his real anger was directed at the fact that she gave Hoffmann warm milk laced with brandy every evening to help him sleep.
‘You should be putting poison in his milk, not brandy!’ he complained. He had even gone so far as to accuse her of being a collaborator.
Schulz came in carrying a load of wood for the stove and, as she thanked him, Isabelle was forced to acknowledge guiltily that his presence in the house was a boon rather than a burden. He had taken over most of the jobs Luke had done when he was at home, fetching and carrying wood and water and seeing to the fire in the range. What was more, he often brought back little luxuries begged from his friend the cook in the officers’ mess, which were a very welcome addition to the meagre rations. And he was company; they both were, in their different ways. Schulz was a cheerful character, with a fund of amusing anecdotes about army life; while with Hoffmann, she had discovered a mutual interest in literature. He borrowed books from the small library she had accumulated and it was pleasant to have someone to discuss them with. He was well-educated and sensitive, a far cry from the popular image of a German soldier, and she knew from Schulz that he was bullied by his commanding officer, who regarded him as a coward. She found herself developing an almost maternal concern about his health. The problem, she now understood, was that he was asthmatic and any undue stress, or exposure to things he was allergic to, could bring on a paroxysm of wheezing.
The positive aspects of the situation were almost outweighed by one great drawback: with the two men in the house most evenings, it was almost impossible to listen to the evening news bulletins from the BBC. Isabelle had no idea whether her children had reached England, but she was terrified that she might miss the one broadcast which carried the message she so longed to hear, so she risked slipping out to the wine cellar every evening to listen. She had tried telephoning Marcel again but as before there was no reply. The suspense ate away at her until she felt prepared to do anything to bring it to an end.
She gave her father his supper and forced herself to eat something, then cleared away the dishes. As she finished the washing up, she glanced at the clock above the dresser and saw that it was 8.50 pm. Hoffmann was in his own room as usual, and Schulz had gone into the village to join his friends in the café on the square.
Isabelle took off her apron and pinned up a stray lock of hair.
‘I’m just going out for a breath of air,’ she told her father.
‘As usual,’ the old man muttered. ‘It’s the same every night. What’s so important out there that you have to go out every night?’
‘There’s nothing important,’ she said, keeping her tone light with an effort. ‘It’s a warm evening and I fancy a little stroll, that’s all.’
‘Yesterday it was raining, but you still went out,’ he said. ‘You’re not going out there to smoke cigarettes, are you?’
‘No, Papa! You know I don’t smoke.’ She knew from many exchanges in the past that, although he had no objection to men smoking, her father had a rooted disapproval of the habit for women. ‘Anyway, where would I get cigarettes from? There’s no cigarette ration for women.’
‘From your German pals, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he replied.
‘They are not my pals! They are billeted here and we treat each other with as much courtesy and consideration as the situation permits. That’s all there is to it. Now, I’ve got a headache and I need some fresh air. I’ll be back in half an hour.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me! Don’t hurry back for my sake. I can sit here on my own, like always.’
For a moment, she was tempted to explain why she needed to go out, but she was unsure how far she could trust the old man to be discreet. He often said things in the presence of the two Germans that were intended to provoke, and she could imagine him dropping hints that he was privy to some secret. It was not a risk she could afford to take, so she shook her head in silence and went out into the dusk.
It was a beautiful spring evening. The sun had just gone down and the sky was pale duck-egg blue, with the evening star hanging low above the western horizon. For a moment she stood still, inhaling the perfume of the Gloire de Dijon rose that grew around the door. Then, she hurried to the cellar. A rapid glance around reassured her that no one was watching and she unlocked the door and was about to slip inside, when a movement nearby caused her to give a cry of alarm, quickly stifled, as a hoarse whisper came from the shadows.
‘Don’t be frightened, Madame. It’s me, Louis. I need to speak to you.’
Isabelle opened the door and gestured for him to go in. She followed and pulled it to behind her, before feeling for the candle and matches that she kept on top of a barrel just inside. Louis was even more dishevelled and unkempt then before.
‘I’m sorry, Madame,’ he went on. ‘I know it was a shock to find me here, but I didn’t want anyone to see me hanging around outside.’
‘What is it
?’ she asked, more curtly than she intended. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To tell you that we shall be collecting the stuff you are hiding for us, the day after tomorrow. The same men who delivered the barrels will collect them. If anyone asks, you can say you have sold a consignment of wine.’
‘But everyone knows that all my wine goes to Bussy in Clermont, and it is collected in a van, not by horse and cart.’
‘Perhaps there is no fuel for the van?’ he suggested, ‘so they must use the horses instead.’
‘Very well,’ Isabelle drew a deep breath. At least this meant that she would be relieved of one anxiety. Then, impelled by curiosity she could not deny, she added, ‘Why do you need it?’
The boy’s eyes gleamed.
‘We have received intelligence that a large contingent of the enemy forces is due to move from here to Saint-Nectaire. They will pass through the Gorges de la Monne. Where the road crosses the river is a perfect place for an ambush. We need the explosives to blow the bridge.’
‘I see.’ Isabelle had a momentary vision of the explosion, of men and vehicles plunging into the river, of the survivors being mown down by enfilading fire from the slopes above. She knew that as a patriot she should rejoice in the prospect, but she could only feel a deep sense of revulsion.
Louis moved towards the door.
‘I must go now. Remember, tomorrow afternoon.’
He opened the door, stood for a moment peering out into the gathering darkness, and then was gone. Isabelle hesitated, gathering her thoughts, then she moved quickly to the rear of the cellar and extracted her radio from its hiding place.
The main news broadcast had already started, but she listened to the rest, crouching over the set and straining her ears to catch the words through the crackle of static. Then came the part she was waiting for, the messages personelles, a stream of apparently unintelligible announcements that meant nothing except to the one person they were intended for. Her attention began to waver. It was going to be another wasted evening. Then, incredibly, there it was:
