‘Look, Charles,’ continued Michel. ‘You can’t do this again. I know how you feel… God knows we all do, but this has to stop and it has to stop tonight. What you have been doing is simply too dangerous.’
‘Promise me now,’ said his mother. ‘Promise me you won’t do this again. I couldn’t stand to lose you too.’
With three sets of eyes staring at him expectantly, making him commit to a promise he was unsure that he could keep, he said the only thing that he could.
‘Okay… I promise.’
‘That’s that then,’ said Michel standing up. ‘Now get yourself off to bed and don’t let me catch you doing anything like this again.’
He rose from the table and without looking back at them, he walked to the bedroom, leaving them to discuss the situation in hushed whispers for the remainder of the night.
As he lay in bed a few minutes later he realised that he would have to find another way to fight back at the Germans. Breaking the curfew was now totally out of the question.
Chapter 6
For two weeks Charles kept a low profile, not wanting to do anything that would upset his mother or generate the wrath of his grandmother. He went to school, did as he was told, tidied his bedroom and carried out his chores without having to be asked. The chalk he had kept in his pocket had worn down to a short stump and he had discarded it a few days ago. Uncle Michel had visited regularly and where once he had thought the man to be aloof and condescending, Charles now had a new-found respect for the man. After all, he had not reported him to his superiors and had covered up for his night-time misdemeanours. This respect seemed to be a mutual thing as the gendarme would smile at him whenever he was in his company and no longer passed sarcastic comments.
Charles had managed to procure himself a bicycle.
Monsieur Leroux, the old man from the apartment above, who until recently could be seen pedalling around the neighbourhood on a rusty old thing that had clearly seen better days, had finally succumbed to the final chapter of life’s inevitable cycle and had passed away a week ago. His widow, Clara, had told Charles that he could have it, probably so she didn’t have to find a way of getting rid of the thing.
Charles had spent the last week cleaning it up. Every day, after school, he would get a wire brush that Henri had borrowed from his father and scrub away at the rusty handlebars and frame until eventually it looked presentable. He had managed to find some oil and once the brakes and tyres were seen to, he now had something that he could make use of.
He had never had a bicycle before and wasn’t sure on how to ride the thing, which was still slightly too big for him despite him having lowered the seat and handlebars. With Henri helping by holding onto the back of the seat, he was soon able to get used to the balance, and after only one or two painful crashes resulting in grazed shins and hands it was not long before he was able to ride it confidently.
Using the bicycle he was able to help his mother by collecting groceries, placing the items in the basket on the handlebars and pedalling from shop to shop to collect the family rations. He enjoyed the freedom that the bicycle now gave him and he would often head out further from his apartment block than he had ever done before, to explore the wonderful city in which he lived.
He was pleased to see that new graffiti was appearing on buildings and monuments all the time, displaying the fortitude and resilience of his fellow countrymen. He was pleased that although his own personal acts of resistance had been curtailed, there were still others prepared to carry out these small acts of defiance, no matter how seemingly ineffective.
After all, the Germans would not leave because a few people daubed slogans and Vs on a few buildings. But, to Charles, that wasn’t the point. The point was to show them that it didn’t matter what they did, there were still people willing to stand up to them and to shout out for what was right.
It amused him to see that the Germans themselves had adopted the ‘V for Victory’ campaign in a blatant attempt to reverse the effect it was having, to make it seem that the graffiti was in fact in support of them. It was laughable. Charles had even seen a huge V hanging on the Palais Bourbon with the proclamation ‘Germany Is Victorious On All Fronts’ hanging below it. When he had seen it and someone passing had kindly translated it from the German to French for him, he had laughed out loud. Astonished that he should react in this manner, the gentleman had hurriedly walked away, which only added to Charles’s amusement. He thought this reaction from the occupier was really quite pathetic.
It was a Saturday afternoon when he found himself cycling along the Quai D’Orsay, the powerful River Seine flowing relentlessly to his right, when he noticed a German Opel truck ahead of him which had stopped at a red light. Not wanting to stop alongside it he pulled up and waited a few metres away. As he dismounted his bicycle another cyclist overtook him, a young lady wearing a light jacket and a grey skirt. Under a red beret, dark brown hair fell loosely to her shoulders. He watched as she rode up to the truck and held onto the side of it for balance as they waited for the lights to change to green. There was something about the girl that held his attention and for some reason he wanted her to turn her head so he could take a proper look at her face.
As if she sensed she was being observed she turned and for a brief moment their eyes met. She smiled absent-mindedly at him, as though her thoughts were elsewhere and she had not completely registered his existence, before turning her head back, her eyes raised up to the traffic light. Quickly and discreetly, clearly thinking that nobody was watching, she put her free hand into her pocket and pulled what looked like a piece of paper from it. Charles watched, transfixed, as she placed it against the side of the truck where it stuck fast. She gently smoothed the sticker into position before putting her hands back onto the handlebars of her bicycle.
From his position at the side of the road Charles could clearly see the familiar sign that had come to be a significant part of his life recently. This girl had blatantly placed a sticker on the German army truck which had the letter V, the cross of Lorraine and no doubt subversive wording underneath, the content of which he could not make out.
Then she turned to him once more and finally realising that she had been observed, she winked at him and put her finger to her lips before pushing off on her bicycle and pedalling away. As the light turned to green she turned to the left as the German troop wagon trundled along ahead, the soldiers inside oblivious to what she had just done.
Charles was momentarily taken aback. The shock of seeing someone do something so bold, and in broad daylight too, almost took his breath away.
With a growing excitement he realised that he needed to speak to this girl. He had to know who she was and why she had done this. What motivated her? Where had she got the sticker? Did she feel the same way as he did? Did she have that same compulsion to do something about the German occupation? Whatever it was that she was a part of, he knew instantly that he wanted to be a part of it too.
He stood up on the pedal, using the weight of his whole body to get the bicycle moving quickly and as he cut across the roadway in his haste to not lose sight of her, he heard the screech of brakes and the blast of a car horn as the driver of the vehicle he had nearly collided with shouted obscenities at him through the window. Charles ignored him and did not look back as he pedalled furiously in an attempt to find the girl who had just done what he thought was the bravest thing he had ever seen in his life.
He could see her in the distance, casually riding along as though she had no cares in the world, unaware that he was now following her. He kept a lengthy distance, not wanting to scare her, and followed her as she rode on for ten minutes, taking him further away from the river. He wanted to know who she was, where she lived and to ask her if she could give him some of the stickers she had used. That one act at the traffic lights had reignited his excitement and his desire to carry on with his crusade to rid Paris of the Germans.
Ahead, the girl turned left and headed deep into the 14t
h Arrondissement completely oblivious that she was being followed. Eventually she pulled to a stop, and resting her foot on the road, she took a pack of cigarettes from her jacket, put one into her mouth and lit it from a book of matches. Shaking the match to extinguish the flame, she turned her head slightly and for the first time Charles was able to get a good look at her face, more than the quick glance he had experienced whilst at the traffic lights.
She was pretty, there was no denying that, and he felt a sudden twisting in his stomach as he gazed at her. She looked around twenty years old. He could not make out the colour of her eyes but they looked shiny and vibrant, and her lips were of the brightest red he had ever seen. She had a glow about her and looked full of life and confidence. Charles suspected he had fallen in love with her, there and then, as she rested, smoking a cigarette at the side of the road.
He could not take his eyes off her and when she eventually threw the finished cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of her shoe, he was not quite ready to continue following her and she was some distance away before he managed to get the rickety old bicycle moving again.
After a few more minutes she stopped outside a four storey apartment building. She got off the bicycle and wheeled it into the entrance hall before closing the door behind her.
Charles pedalled as hard as he could until he was outside the door. Leaning his own bicycle against a tree a few yards away, he cautiously opened the door and walked in. He could hear footsteps on the stone staircase above him and when he looked up the stairwell he could see her, fumbling in her purse for a key to an apartment on the second floor.
‘Can I help you?’
Startled, Charles jumped back. He had not noticed a door to his left opening, his concentration totally on this mysterious girl. He turned his head to see a middle-aged man addressing him, and then instantly looked back up the stairs to see that the girl was now looking down, disturbed by the exchange in the hallway below her. Once again, for a fleeting moment, their eyes met. Whereas before, she had winked and smiled at him, this time there was a look of total horror upon her face as she instantly recognised him.
Charles turned back to the man.
‘Erm no… no thank you…’ he stammered.
‘What is it you want?’ asked the man. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Nobody… nobody…’ replied Charles. ‘I think I’m lost.’
He quickly moved to the doorway and let himself out. He grabbed the bicycle from the tree and was about to get on it when the door opened again and the girl stood before him.
He did not know what to do. He was completely flummoxed and in his haste to get away he dropped the bicycle to the ground. He stooped down to pick it up.
‘I think you’d better come in,’ said the girl in a husky voice.
‘I… erm… I…’
‘Now,’ she ordered, and then added in a softer tone. ‘Don’t be afraid. We’re not going to harm you.’
‘I have to get home,’ said Charles nervously. ‘My mother will be wondering where I am.’
‘Nonsense,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, we won’t take up much of your time.’
Reluctantly Charles picked up the bicycle and leaned it against the tree again.
‘Bring it inside,’ she said. ‘Someone may steal it if you leave it there.’
Heaving a big sigh, Charles did as she asked and wheeled the bicycle into the entrance hall, leaning it against the wall next to the staircase.
Dejectedly he followed her up the stairs.
She opened the apartment door and indicated for him to go in ahead of her. Once inside she closed the door behind them.
Charles could hear voices coming from a room to the right. Male voices. From what he could hear, they sounded like there were three of them and although he could not make out the words they were clearly debating something quite vigorously.
‘Wait here,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll be a couple of minutes.’
She walked into the room and closed the door behind her. All three men stopped talking as she entered and Charles strained his ears to listen to what it was that she was saying. He presumed she was talking about him. He could hear one or two raised voices, admonishing her for being so ‘indiscreet’ and other words that he could not make out or understand. They were clearly unhappy with her.
Eventually the door opened and the girl appeared, red-faced.
‘Come inside,’ she said softly. ‘Do not worry. Nobody will hurt you.’
It was clear to Charles that she was upset. Whatever it was that they had said to her had clearly unsettled her. She no longer looked confident.
He followed her into the room.
There were indeed three men. One of them, also red-faced and clearly agitated sat at a table, a pile of paperwork in front of him. He was a small, balding man in his late thirties wearing a smart suit and wire-rimmed spectacles. Sitting opposite him was a handsome younger looking man, dressed in a light green corduroy jacket and wearing a cap on his head. The third man, around thirty years old, sat reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe on a sofa to the left, his dark hair slicked back with oil. He looked totally indifferent to what was going on.
‘And who may you be?’ asked the man with the spectacles.
Charles immediately thought it better not to give his real name.
‘Victor,’ he said. ‘And to whom am I addressing?’ he asked.
‘Never you mind, young fellow,’ replied the man, his face remaining as red as it had been when Charles had first walked into the room. ‘Can you tell me what is your business here?’
‘I have no business here,’ replied Charles. ‘I was asked to come in by this lady… I have no idea why.’
‘Come, come,’ said the younger man. ‘Let us not all talk in circles here. Can you explain why you followed Lucy here?’
Charles turned to look at Lucy. He was finding it difficult to think of a believable excuse on the spot and so decided to tell the truth.
‘I saw what she did… at the traffic lights. I wanted to tell her that I can help… I’ve done things like this too… I want…’
The man with the spectacles held up his hand.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘What do you mean you’ve done things like this too? What do you think it is Lucy has done?’
‘I saw the sticker,’ replied Charles enthusiastically. ‘If you give me some stickers like that I’ll put them all over Paris for you. A few weeks ago I painted V for Victory, Vive La France and other stuff all over my neighbourhood… I climbed out of my bedroom window during curfew to do it… My father is a prisoner of war…’
Again the man held up his hand.
‘Okay, okay,’ he repeated. ‘I think we get the picture. A right little rebel you are, eh?’
‘Maybe we could use him,’ suggested Lucy. ‘After all, what is the alternative.’
‘Do you know where you are?’ asked the younger man ignoring her. ‘Would you be able to find this place again?’
‘Most certainly,’ replied Charles. ‘And now I’ve seen all your faces too… But you can trust me, you really can… Please let me help you.’
‘How old are you, son?’ asked the younger man. ‘Where do you live?’
‘I’m thirteen years old,’ replied Charles, his confidence growing. ‘And I live not far from here… Give me some of those stickers and I’ll show you how you can trust me.’
The two men looked over to the man smoking the pipe on the sofa, who was yet to speak. He had continued to read the newspaper, seemingly uninterested, whilst the conversation had been taking place.
He put the newspaper down to his side and took the pipe from his mouth. He tapped it on the wooden arm of the sofa, loosening up the tobacco, before putting it back into his mouth. Charles liked the sweet smell of the smoke and although this gentleman had not yet said a word, he realised that he was probably the leader of the group.
‘Hmm,’ pondered the pipe smoker after some thought. ‘You have us at a d
isadvantage, Victor… if indeed that is your name, young man.’
The man spoke with an accent Charles had never heard before. He was certainly French but was clearly not a Parisian.
Charles smiled at him but did not reply.
‘You see our quandary is this… how do we know we can trust you? The simple answer to that is that we don’t know if we can. How could we? We are only meeting you now for the first time. You have witnessed what Lucy did, you know where one of us lives… in fact you know enough to be able to cause us a whole load of trouble should you wish to report it to the authorities.’
‘I would never do that,’ replied Charles. ‘I think that what Lucy did was wonderful. I only followed her because I want to be able to do the same.’
‘This is a dangerous business…’
‘I am aware of that…’
‘Don’t interrupt, please,’ smiled the pipe smoker. ‘However, I feel there is little we can do but to trust you for now. We have no choice other than that… or to take you outside and shoot you, and we are not in the business of shooting thirteen-year-old French boys… we are not Nazis.’
And then the man sat up straight in the sofa. He seemed to have made a decision.
‘Okay… Here’s what we shall do. I will let you leave here now but you are to come back here at six o’clock in the evening two days from now. I will then give you some of these stickers that you are so keen on and then we will take it from there. You must tell no-one of this arrangement… no-one at all. No friends, no brothers or sisters, no mother or father… absolutely no-one. If you prove to be loyal and trustworthy then we may find further use for you.’
The man with the spectacles made to interrupt but the pipe smoker raised his hand.
‘In the meantime, one of us will remain in this apartment until then. I bid you good day, Victor.’
The man put the pipe back into his mouth and picked up the newspaper again indicating that the meeting was now over.
‘Come,’ said Lucy, leading him to the door. She was clearly still upset at her indiscretion and the compromising position she had put the group in.
The Darkest Hour Page 80
