Resistance

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Let’s find out.’ There was a tub upstairs, and another pump. ‘This place is almost civilized,’ Liane commented. ‘You first.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll have any washing powder? I need to wash my dress.’

  ‘That can keep until after I’ve had mine.’ Liane went into a bedroom, sat on the bed, and with some difficulty took off her sandals. Apart from the swelling, her feet were blistered and bleeding in several places; her carefully manicured toenails were a mess. Her stockings were in tatters, so she took off her pants and removed them altogether. There was blood on her blouse as well. She took it off and stretched out on the bed in her cami-knickers. Never had she felt so tired, both physically and mentally.

  The mental exhaustion was a combination of real tiredness, from the many hours of concentrated driving and then walking she had put in over the past two days, and shock, less at what had happened to her personally, her brush with death during the air attack, or even the death of Aubrey Brent — she had only met him for the first time three days ago, and she found it difficult actually to relate him to Joanna — or all the other dead bodies she had encountered and those sprawled on the street only a few yards away. It was the unbelievable suggestion that the army might have been defeated, on virtually the first day of battle. It simply could not be true.

  She knew better than anyone, because of the life she lived in Paris, that France was by no means the boisterous, happy community it so often appeared to the outside world. In her artistic circle ‘patriotism’ was a dead word, and she also knew that Papa, and the business, had gone through a difficult time over the past few years, as the Popular Front government had been attempting to socialize the entire country. But whatever the social unrest, the absurd attitudes adopted in the cafes, there had been one rock on which the French state, French society, French confidence in the future, had been securely based: the army. The French army was not only the greatest in the world, it was also the finest. This fact had been drummed into her by her father when she had been a child in the twenties, when, whatever the catastrophic casualties and destruction of the Great War, France had emerged triumphant. It had been confirmed by Pierre and his friends during the last few years. And now...

  It simply could not be true. Those colonial soldiers had simply deserted. They should be shot. They would be shot, when they were caught.

  Joanna stood in the doorway, a splendidly naked figure. ‘Do you think there’ll be anything to eat? I’m starving.’

  ‘We’ll find something when I’ve finished.’

  The water was a long way from clean, but she did not feel like emptying the tub and then refilling it. But as it was also distinctly cool she did not feel like hanging about, either. She soaked, soaped, and soaked again, then got out, watched by Joanna from the doorway. ‘I’ve found some washing powder.’

  ‘So let’s have a go.’ They scrubbed both the dress and Liane’s blouse, reducing the bloodstains to several large but indeterminate blotches. ‘At least they shouldn’t smell so bad,’ Liane said.

  ‘Food,’ Joanna suggested. They spread the clothes out to dry, went downstairs and found some cheese and stale bread. Liane opened a bottle of wine, and they sat at a table and had their lunch.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘We are going to go to Paris.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Walk.’

  ‘To Paris? I have blisters.’

  ‘Have a look at mine. We’ll just have to grit our teeth.’ Joanna considered, and drank some wine. ‘And then what?’

  ‘We’ll call Mama and tell her we’re all right; then I am going to go to bed for a week.’

  ‘But we’re not all right,’ Joanna said.

  ‘So we have blisters and bruises. We’ll recover.’

  ‘Aubrey isn’t going to recover.’

  What to say? Liane wondered. What could she say, save meaningless platitudes. ‘Listen, when we get to Paris and tell Papa what happened, he’ll send out to find the body. Aubrey will have a proper burial.’

  ‘There won’t be a body by then. And Mom...’ Joanna shivered.

  ‘Would you like me to write her?’

  ‘Shit, no. I’ll have to tell her. As soon as we get to Paris I’ll have to find a ship for the States.’

  ‘Um... Liane wondered how easy, or safe, that was going to be. ‘This stuff is quite drinkable. Let’s have another bottle.’ She got up and checked at the distant sound of engines.

  ‘Not more planes?’ Joanna’s voice was shrill.

  ‘Those are car engines. Transport!’ She looked down at herself, then grabbed a red and white checked tablecloth and wrapped it round herself. Then she went outside to wave her arms, and gulped. ‘Tanks! Still, they can give us a ride. Oh, shit!’ She squinted, and made out the swastika.

  Three

  Defeat

  ‘Pack up,’ Barrett said. ‘We leave in an hour. What we can’t take must be destroyed.’

  His two junior officers looked at each other and then at him. ‘We’ve only just settled in,’ Watson protested.

  ‘Well, now we have to get out of here. It looks like that report you filed on French morale, James, was one hundred per cent accurate. The front has collapsed.’

  James looked out of the window of the house they had requisitioned as Intelligence headquarters. Through the trees he could see the waters of the River Dyle, and some of the considerable strength of the BEF consolidating their defensive perimeter. They had arrived here in a rush over the past few days, dismayed to learn that their Belgian allies had abandoned the line of the Albert Canal and were falling back towards them. Some Belgian units had already crossed the Dyle and were being redirected to the defence of Brussels. The Germans had been close behind, and there had been a fierce little battle, in which even the Intelligence unit had played its part. The enemy had then retired, and at the moment, they were not to be seen. It was a delightful spring morning, which, apart from the shell craters and bullet damage, made it difficult to believe there was a war on.

  ‘Our front hasn’t collapsed,’ Watson objected. ‘We’ve given them one bloody nose. We can give them another. We can certainly hold them.’

  ‘I imagine we could hold them here,’ Barrett agreed. ‘But not if they’re able to get round behind us, and that is what could happen now they’ve broken through the Ardennes. Don’t remind me, Harry. You were right and I was wrong. Now all we can do is get on with the job. And our orders are to pull out, in front of the army. The one thing the brass doesn’t want to have happen is for their Intelligence unit to be overrun by the enemy. So let’s get on with it.’

  He bustled off, and Watson commenced putting papers into a satchel while various sergeants and privates scurried around the office. ‘How do you think your friends will handle this? If the Jerries really have broken through, well... Chartres is only a few miles south of Paris, isn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t suppose Gamelin is going to let the Germans take Paris, do you? Anyway, I shouldn’t think the de Gruchys will hang about. They’ll be off down to Paulliac. Miles away from any fighting.’

  ‘And you never had the opportunity to get to grips with the fair Madeleine.’

  ‘No,’ James said thoughtfully. But Liane... Of course she would be back in Paris by now. But despite what he had just claimed, would even Paris be safe? And there was nothing he could do about it.

  ‘There must be some way of getting news,’ Albert de Gruchy said, twisting his hands together.

  Jean Moulin had never seen his friend so agitated; he had always considered the wine grower the calmest of men. ‘It was an incredulously dangerous thing to do,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Of course. But you know Liane... She wanted to be involved.’

  Moulin scratched his ear. ‘And you are sure she is not in Paris?’

  ‘I have telephoned. It is difficult to get a line. But I have got her number three times, and there is no reply.’

  ‘She could have been out each
time.’

  ‘If she was there, she would have called us, to let us know she was all right. She had that American woman and her brother with her. They would have wanted to be in touch with their parents. Anyway, I got through to the office, and they sent someone round. They reported back that the flat is locked and the concierge told them there is no one there. If she was somehow stranded in the north...’

  Moulin nodded. ‘I will see what I can do. But I cannot promise anything.’

  ‘Surely there will be casualty lists? Just to know she is not on them would be a relief.’

  ‘I do not think there will be any casualty lists of civilians overrun by the enemy. But I will do what I can. Now you must get out of here while you can. How long will it take you to reach Paulliac?’

  ‘Depending on the roads... We will have to use two cars. Liana took the Rolls. God knows what has happened to that.’

  ‘Then use two cars. Here is an extra ration book. But get down to Bordeaux as quickly as you can. I will telephone you there. Good fortune.’

  ‘Well?’ Barbara asked.

  Albert sat down, looked around the anxious faces. ‘Jean will do what he can. But it is all very confused. He says we must go down to Paulliac right away.’

  ‘Why? We must stay here until Liane gets home.’

  ‘My darling, our armies are defeated. The Germans are advancing very fast. Paris could well fall. They could be here in a week.’

  ‘I cannot believe that,’ Barbara snapped.

  ‘What is the news of the BEF?’ Madeleine asked.

  ‘They are fleeing through Belgium.’

  ‘Fleeing?’

  ‘Retreating as fast as they can.’ Albert looked at the Bursteins. ‘My friends...’

  ‘You must go,’ David Burstein said. ‘So must we.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘Well, back to Dieppe. That is where the business is. And that is where the army will send news of Henri.’ He looked at his daughter-in-law.

  ‘I will come with you,’ Amalie said.

  ‘But...’ Barbara bit her lip.

  ‘That is Henri’s home, Mama. Therefore it is my home too.’

  Barbara looked at her husband, but Albert knew he could not interfere.

  ‘We will take good care of her,’ Rosa Burstein promised. ‘Now we must pack.’

  Albert stood up. ‘So must we. Come along now.’

  ‘I will stay here,’ Madeleine said.

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ her mother told her. ‘How can you stay here by yourself?’

  ‘I will not be by myself. The house is full of servants. And here is where Liane will come, as soon as she can.’

  Barbara looked at her husband. Albert shrugged. The continuing news of catastrophe seemed to have robbed him of the powers of decision. ‘Well,’ Barbara said, ‘we will leave you the little sports car. Promise that if the war moves south of Paris you will leave immediately, and that you will do nothing stupid like trying to find Liane. She must come to you. You must stay in the house.’

  ‘I will stay here, Mama. As long as it is safe to do so.’

  *

  What am I doing? she wondered as she stood on the steps to wave the two families off. Obeying her instincts. Chartres was where the family had exploded, and Chartres was where it would come back together, she was certain. Certainly her sisters. Dieppe was only a day’s drive away, Paris a morning. Paulliac was too distant. And the men? She did not suppose there was much chance of hearing from Pierre for a while, but again her instincts told her that if he could get in touch, it would be to Chartres he would send, certainly in the first instance. Henri would no doubt do the same, and she would be able to tell him where Amalie was. By then Liane would be with her, and they could go down to Paulliac together. Oh, pray to God that Liane would be with her.

  James? But James was surely already history, fleeing with his army for the safety of the Channel coast and an evacuation to England. That was not his fault; it was a decision of his commanding officers. But that did not affect the reality that he was being swept by the tide of war outside of her orbit — after the briefest of acquaintances, which had promised so much.

  *

  General Erwin Rommel sat at the field table outside his tent and watched his batman pouring wine. French wine! It wasn’t Gruchy Grand Cru, but it was very drinkable. The general was at once pleased and frustrated. If he had spent the past few years training and learning and becoming daily more excited about the possibilities of armoured warfare, and daily more confident of success when given the opportunity, he had never dared expect anything like this.

  The orders given him by his superior, General Guderian, had been simple in the extreme. ‘You will attack the enemy, you will force the crossing of the Meuse, and you will continue to attack and harass the enemy until further orders. Do not concern yourself with support or logistics. We will take care of that. Your only concern is the defeat of the enemy.’

  Rommel had assumed that he was being launched into a vast battle which would be extremely costly, and had braced himself for an experience which would either make or break not only his division but his reputation. But the enemy, after a few abortive attempts to hold the line of the river, had simply melted away. He had expected a violent counter-attack from the French armour, which he knew, both in numbers and tank for tank, was more powerful than the Wehrmacht’s panzers, but there had been none. His only problem was the one thing he had been told not to worry about: logistics. He had advanced so far and so fast he had been forced to halt his troops to await the petrol tankers. There was even a suggestion that the army commander, General von Kleist, had ordered Guderian to stop his panzers because they were advancing too fast! But he had been assured the fuel would be here in a couple of hours. Meanwhile... He frowned when he saw one of his aides-de-camp hurrying towards him, looking extremely anxious. ‘You should try smiling, Willy. Join me.’

  ‘HerrGeneral...’ Captain Eisner continued to look anxious. ‘These women...’

  Rommel put down his glass. ‘What women?’

  ‘A Mademoiselle de Gruchy.’

  Rommel’s frown returned. ‘I know that name. The wine people.’

  ‘Her father is one of the biggest wine growers in France.’

  ‘Then what is she doing here? She’s not hurt, I hope?’

  ‘Ah...’ Eisner preferred not to answer that. ‘There is a woman with her. An American.’

  ‘An American? Where?’

  ‘They were taken in the village of Auchamps.’

  ‘We passed Auchamps three days ago.’

  ‘Yes, Herr General.’

  ‘Eisner, you either have a great deal more to say or you have said a great deal too much. Two women, one a French aristocrat and the other a neutral, were in the village of Auchamps when it was taken by our people. Is that what you are telling me?’

  ‘Yes, Herr General.’

  ‘Three days ago. Why are you reporting it to me now?’

  ‘I only discovered it this morning. The men holding them were only arrested this morning.’

  Rommel gave him a severe look. ‘I hope you did not state that correctly.’

  ‘Sadly, Herr General...’

  ‘You are saying that these women were held by our troops?’

  ‘Half a dozen bad eggs, sir. From an infantry unit. They deserted as we advanced, entered the village, and, well... the women were apparently in bed. Naked.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘They had been with a group of refugees. But they had been left behind after an air attack and had sought shelter in this village.’

  Rommel’s hand closed on his wine glass with such force that it snapped; his batman hurried forward with a napkin and a fresh glass, poured some more wine. ‘You say these men have been arrested? Have a court martial convened immediately. Now, these women, where are they?’

  ‘They are in hospital, sir.’

  ‘You said they were not hurt.’

  ‘They
are not hurt in the sense of broken bones or open wounds, but their feet are in a bad state. I do not think they were accustomed to walking any distance, and, well... I don’t think either of them had ever been raped before,’ he added ingenuously.

  Rommel stared at him. ‘So what is their condition?’

  ‘Fraulein de Gruchy seems fairly calm, although she is undoubtedly very angry. Fraulein Jonsson is hysterical. She is under sedation. Apart from what happened to her, her brother was apparently killed when the refugee column they were with was strafed by our planes.’ Rommel sighed. ‘She is also making all kinds of threats,’ Eisner went on. it seems that her mother is friends with some big people in Washington, and her father is an official in the Swedish government.’

  ‘What a shitting mess,’ Rommel commented. ‘Men under my command... Can these women be persuaded to keep quiet about what happened? If they are assured that their rapists are going to be court-martialled?’

  ‘I think it is doubtful, sir. Perhaps, if you were to see them...’

  ‘I will be resuming the advance the moment our fuel supplies catch up with us, which I expect to happen in the next hour. We have a war to win, Eisner. This could well become a political matter. Inform Colonel Kluck.’

  ‘But sir...’

  ‘I know. But the Gestapo have the time. I do not. Tell Kluck to interview the women, get their version of what happened, and then have them returned behind the enemy lines.’ He pointed. ‘There is to be no funny business and no threats, but if he can persuade them not to pursue the matter I will commend him.’

  ‘Yes, Herr General. About the court martial...’

  ‘We will deal with that ourselves, and now. I wish those men hanged. But the charges will be desertion in the face of the enemy, not rape. We do not want the sort of puerile propaganda used against us in 1914 to be raked up again.’

  Eisner saluted.

  *

  ‘You understand, mademoiselle,’ Hans Kluck said, ‘that this could be a very serious business.’ He was a tall, thin man, with aquiline features, and projected quite a formidable personality. But today he was nervous, not only because of the situation, but because he recognized that he was confronted by a personality as strong as his own, who, even if she did not know it, was in the stronger position because of her own background and thus the general’s orders. He felt even more nervous at being virtually alone with her in the office provided by the doctor in charge of the field hospital, who he knew was right next door and would be able to respond to any untoward noise — he was not even sure that the fellow was a Nazi. To top it all, he was aware that his French, if fluent, was short on grammar, while her flawless delivery merely complemented her remarkable beauty.