by Nevil Shute
I turned, and Howard was at my side. “Pretty hot to-night,” he said.
I nodded. “Would you like to go down into the shelter?”
“Are you going?”
“I don’t believe it’s any safer there than here,” I said.
We went down to the hall to see if there was anything we could do to help. But there was nothing to be done, and presently we went up to our chairs again beside the fire, and poured another glass of the Marsala. I said, “Go on with your story.”
He said diffidently, “I hope I’m not boring you with all this?”
Angerville is a little town upon the Paris-Orleans road. It was about five o’clock when Howard started to walk towards it with the children, a hot, dusty afternoon.
He told me that that was one of the most difficult moments of his life. Since he had left Cidoton he had been travelling towards England; as he had gone on fear had grown upon him. Up to the last it had seemed incredible that he should not get through, hard though the way might be. But now he realized that he would not get through. The Germans were between him and the sea. In marching on to Angerville he was marching to disaster, to internment, probably to his death.
That did not worry him too much. He was old and tired; if an end came now he would be missing nothing very much. A few more days of fishing, a few more summers pottering in his garden. But the children — they were another matter. Somehow he must make them secure. Rose and Pierre might be turned over to the French police; sooner or later they would be returned to their relatives. But Sheila and Ronnie — what arrangement could he possibly make for them? What would become of them? And what about the dirty little boy who now was with them, who had been stoned by old women mad with terror and blind hate? What would become of him?
The old man suffered a good deal.
There was nothing to be done but to walk straight into Angerville. The Germans were behind them, to the north, to the east, and to the west. He felt that it was hopeless to attempt a dash across the country to the south as the Air Force men had done; he could not possibly out-distance the advance of the invader. Better to go ahead and meet what lay before him bravely, conserving his strength that he might help the children best.
Ronnie said, “Listen to the band.”
They were about half a mile from the town. Rose exclaimed with pleasure. “Ecoute, Pierre,” she said, bending down to him. “Ecoute!”
“Eh?” said Howard, waking from his reverie. “What’s that?”
Ronnie said, “There’s a band playing in the town. May we go and listen to it?” But his ears were keener than the old man’s, and Howard could hear nothing.
Presently, as they walked into the town, he picked out the strains of Liebestraum.
On the way into the town they passed a train of very dirty lorries halted by the road, drawing in turn up to a garage and filling their tanks at the pump. The soldiers moving round them appeared strange at first; with a shock the old man realized that he was seeing what he had expected for the last hour to see; the men were German soldiers. They wore field grey uniforms with open collars and patch pockets, with a winged eagle broidered on the right breast. Some of them were bare-headed; others wore the characteristic German steel helmet. They had sad, tired, expressionless faces; they moved about their work like so many machines.
Sheila said, “Are those Swiss soldiers, Mr. Howard?”
“No,” he said, “they’re not Swiss.”
Ronnie said, “They wear the same kind of hat.”
Rose said, “What are they?”
He gathered them around him. “Look,” he said in French, “you mustn’t be afraid. They are German, but they won’t hurt you.”
They were passing a little group of them. From the crowd an Unterfeldwebel came up to them; he wore long black boots and breeches stained with oil. “That is the proper spirit,” he said in harsh, guttural French. “We Germans are your friends. We bring you peace. Very soon you will be able to go home again.”
The children stared at him, as if they did not understand what he had said. Very likely this was so, because his French was very bad.
Howard said in French, “It will be good when we have peace again.” There was no point in giving up before he was found out.
The man smiled, a set, expressionless grin. “How far have you come?”
“From Pithiviers.”
“Have you walked so far?”
“No. We got a lift in a lorry which broke down a few miles back.”
The German said, “So. Then you will want supper. In the Place there is a soup kitchen which you may go to.”
Howard said, “Je vous remercie.” There was nothing else to say.
The man was pleased. He ran his eye over them, and frowned at the little boy in the smock. He stepped up and took him by the head, not ungently, and examined the wound upon his neck. Then he looked at his own hands, and wiped them with disgust, having handled the child’s head.
“So!” he said. “By the church there is a field hospital. Take him to the Sanitätsunteroffizier.” He dismissed them curtly, and turned back to his men.
One or two of the men looked at them woodenly, listlessly, but no one else spoke to them. They went on to the centre of the town. At the cross roads in the middle, where the road to Orleans turned off to the left and the road to Paris to the right, there was a market square before a large grey church. In the centre of the square the band was playing.
It was a band of German soldiers. They stood there, about twenty of them, playing doggedly, methodically; doing their duty for their Führer. They wore soft field caps and silver tassels on their shoulders. A Feldwebel conducted them. He stood above them on a little rostrum, the baton held lovingly between his finger tips. He was a heavy, middle-aged man; as he waved he turned from side to side and smiled benignly on his audience. Behind the band a row of tanks and armoured cars were parked.
The audience was mostly French. A few grey-faced, listless German soldiers stood around, seemingly tired to death; the remainder of the audience were men and women of the town. They stood round gaping curiously at the intruders, peering at the tanks and furtively studying the uniforms and accoutrements of the men.
Ronnie said in English, “There’s the band, Mr. Howard. May we go and listen to it?”
The old man looked quickly round. Nobody seemed to have heard him. “Not now,” he said in French. “We must go with this little boy to have his neck dressed.”
He led the children away from the crowd. “Try not to speak English while we’re here,” he said quietly to Ronnie.
“Why not, Mr. Howard?”
Sheila said, “May I speak English, Mr. Howard?”
“No,” he said. “The Germans don’t like to hear people speaking English.”
The little girl said in English, “Would the Germans mind if Rose spoke English?”
A passing Frenchwoman looked at them curiously. The old man beat down his irritation; they were only children. He said in French, “If you speak English I’ll find a little frog to put into your mouth.”
Rose said, “Oo — to hear what m’sieur has said! A little frog! It would be horrible, that.”
In mixed laughter and apprehension they went on talking in French.
The field hospital was on the far side of the church. As they went towards it every German soldier that they passed smiled at them mechanically, a set, expressionless grin. When the first one did it the children stopped to stare, and had to be herded on. After the first half dozen they got used to it.
One of the men said, “Bonjour, mes enfants.”
Howard muttered quietly, “Bonjour, m’sieur,” and passed on. It was only a few steps to the hospital tent; the net was very close around him now.
The hospital consisted of a large marquee extending from a lorry. At the entrance a lance-corporal of the medical service, a sanitätsgefreiter, stood idle and bored, picking his teeth.
Howard said to Rose, “Stay here, and keep the chi
ldren with you.” He led the little boy up to the tent. He said to the man in French, “The little boy is wounded. A little piece of plaster or a bandage, perhaps?”
The man smiled, that same fixed, mirthless smile. He examined the child deftly. “So!” he said. “Kommen Sie-entrez.”
The old man followed with the child into the tent. A dresser was tending a German soldier with a burnt hand; apart from them the only other occupant was a doctor wearing a white overall. His rank was not apparent. The orderly led the child to him, and showed him the wound.
The doctor nodded briefly. Then he turned the child’s head to the light, and looked at it, expressionless. Then he opened the child’s soiled clothes and looked at his chest. Then, rather ostentatiously, he rinsed his hands.
He crossed the tent to Howard. “You will come again,” he said in thick French, “in one hour.” He held up one finger. “One hour.” Fearing that he had not made himself understood he pulled out his watch and pointed to the hands. “Six hours.”
“Bien compris,” said the old man. “A six heures.” He left the tent, wondering what dark trouble lay in store for him. It could not take an hour to put a dressing on a little cut.
Still there was nothing he could do. He did not dare even to enter into any long conversation with the German; sooner or later his British accent must betray him. He went back to the children, and led them away from the tent.
Earlier that day — how long ago it seemed! — Sheila had suffered a sartorial disaster, in that she had lost her knickers. It had not worried her or any of the children, but it had weighed on Howard’s mind. Now was the time to rectify that omission. To ease Ronnie’s longings they went and had a look at the German tanks in the Place; then, ten minutes later, he led them to a draper’s shop not far from the field hospital.
He pushed open the door of the shop, and a German soldier was at the counter. It was too late to draw back and to do so would have raised suspicion; he stood aside and waited till the German had finished his purchases. Then, as he stood there in the background, he saw that the German was the orderly from the hospital.
A little bundle of clothes lay upon the counter before him, a yellow jersey, a pair of brown children’s shorts, socks, and a vest. “Cinquante quatre, quatre vingt dix,” said the stout old woman at the counter.
The German did not understand her rapid way of speech. She repeated it several times; then he pushed a little pad of paper towards her, and she wrote the sum upon the pad for him. He took it and studied it. Then he wrote his own name and the unit carefully beneath. He tore off the sheet and gave it to her.
“You will be paid later,” he said, in difficult French. He gathered up the garments.
She protested. “I cannot let you take away the clothes unless I have the money. My husband — he would be very much annoyed. He would be furious. Truly, monsieur — that is not possible at all.”
The German said stolidly, “It is good. You will be paid. That is a good requisition.”
She said angrily, “It is not good at all, that. It is necessary that you should pay with money.”
The man said, “That is money, good German money. If you do not believe it, I will call the Military Police. As for your husband, he had better take our German money and be thankful. Perhaps he is a Jew? We have a way with Jews.”
The woman stared at him, dumb. There was a momentary silence in the shop; then the hospital orderly gathered up his purchases and swaggered out. The woman remained staring after him, uncertainly fingering the piece of paper.
Howard went forward and distracted her. She roused herself and showed him children’s pants. With much advice from Rose upon the colour and design, he chose a pair for Sheila, paid three francs fifty for them, and put them on her in the shop.
The woman stood fingering the money. “You are not German, monsieur?” she said heavily. She glanced down at the money in her hand.
He shook his head.
“I thought perhaps you were. Flemish?”
It would never do to admit his nationality, but at any moment one of the children might betray him. He moved towards the door. “Norwegian,” he said at random. “My country has also suffered.”
“I thought you were not French,” she said. “I do not know what will become of us.”
He left the shop and went a little way up the Paris road, hoping to avoid the people. German soldiers were still pouring into the town. He walked about for a time in the increasing crowd, tense and fearful of betrayal every moment. At last it was six o’clock; he went back to the hospital.
He left the children by the church. “Keep them beside you,” he said to Rose. “I shall only be at the hospital a little while. Stay here till I come back.”
He went into the tent, tired and worn with apprehension. The orderly saw him coming. “Wait here,” he said. “I will tell the Herr Oberstabsarzt.”
The man vanished into the tent. The old man stood waiting at the entrance patiently. The warm sun was pleasant now, in the cool of the evening. It would have been pleasant to stay free, to get back to England. But he was tired now, very, very tired. If only he could see the children right, then he could rest.
There was a movement in the tent, and the doctor was there, leading a child by the hand. It was a strange, new child, sucking a sweet. It was spotlessly clean, with short cropped hair trimmed close to its head with clippers. It was a little boy. He wore a yellow jersey and a pair of brown shorts, socks, and new shoes. The clothes were all brand new, and all seemed vaguely familiar to the old man. The little boy smelt very strong of yellow soap and disinfectant.
He wore a clean white dressing on his neck. He smiled at the old man.
Howard stared at him, dumbfounded. The doctor said genially, “So! My orderly has given him a bath. That is better?”
The old man said, “It is wonderful, Herr Doktor. And the clothes, too. And the dressing on his neck. I do not know how to thank you.”
The doctor swelled visibly. “It is not me that you must thank, my friend,” he said with heavy geniality. “It is Germany! We Germans have come to bring you peace, and cleanliness, and the ordered life that is true happiness. There will be no more war, no more wandering for you now. We Germans are your friends.”
“Indeed,” the old man said faintly, “we realize that, Herr Doktor.”
“So,” said the man, “what Germany has done for this boy, she will do for France, for all Europe. A New Order has begun.”
There was rather an awkward silence. Howard was about to say something suitable, but the yellow jersey caught his eye, and the image of the woman in the shop came into his mind and drove the words from his head. He stood hesitant for a minute.
The doctor gave the child a little push towards him. “What Germany has done for this one little Dutchman she will do for all the children of the world,” he said. “Take him away. You are his father?”
Fear lent speed to the old man’s thoughts. A half truth was best. “He is not mine,” he said. “He was lost and quite alone in Pithiviers. I shall take him to the convent.”
The man nodded, satisfied with that. “I thought you might be Dutch yourself,” he said. “You do not speak like these French.”
It would not do to say he was Norwegian again; it was too near to Germany. “I am from the south,” he said. “From Toulouse. But I was staying with my son in Montmirail. Then we got separated in Montargis; I do not know what has become of him. The children I was with are my grandchildren. They are now in the Place. They have been very good children, m’sieur, but it will be good when we can go home.”
He rambled on, getting into the stride of his tale, easily falling into the garrulity of an old man. The doctor turned away rudely. “Well, take your brat,” he said. “You can go home now. There will be no more fighting.”
He went back into the tent.
The old man took the little boy by the hand and led him round the church, passing on the other side of the shop that had sold children’s cl
othes. He found Rose standing more or less where he had left her, with Sheila and Pierre. There was no sign of Ronnie.
He said anxiously to her, “Rose, what has become of Ronnie? Where is he?”
She said, “M’sieur, he has been so naughty. He wanted to see the tanks, but I told him it was wrong that he should go. I told him, m’sieur, that he was a very, very naughty little boy and that you would be very cross with him, m’sieur. But he ran off, all alone.”
Sheila piped up, loud and clear, in English, “May I go and see the tanks, too, Mr. Howard?”
Mechanically he said in French, “Not this evening. I told you that you were all to stay here.”
He looked around, irresolute. He did not know whether to leave the children where they were and go and look for Ronnie, or to take them with him. Either course might bring the other children into danger. If he left them they might get into further trouble. He took hold of the pram, and pushed it ahead of him. “Come this way,” he said.
Pierre edged up to him, and whispered, “May I push?”
It was the first time that the old man had heard the little boy volunteer a remark. He surrendered the handle of the pram. “Of course,” he said. “Rose, help him push.”
He walked beside them towards the parked tanks and lorries, anxiously scanning the crowd. There were German soldiers all about the transport, grey, weary men consciously endeavouring to fraternize with a suspicious population. Some of them were cleaning up their clothes, some tending their machines. Others had little phrase books in their hands, and these were trying to make conversation with the crowd. The French peasants seemed sullen and uncommunicative.
Sheila said suddenly, “There’s Ronnie, over there!”
The old man turned, but could not see him. “Where is he?”
Rose said, “I see him — oh, m’sieur, what a naughty little boy. There, m’sieur, right inside the tank, there — with the German soldiers!”
