After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  Amélie looked at him in astonishment. “I didn’t know. I’m so proud of him. He’s like a man I never knew.”

  Nicolas nodded in agreement. “He would never talk about his Great War experiences. Something tells me that he draws on them. He set up that network to help British and French soldiers get across the country without being captured. He used it to help get our families away so quickly. Groups like his are forming all over the country. I have to be part of them, to save France.”

  Early the next morning, Amélie waited for Nicolas on the front porch. Next to her was a small traveling bag. She had looked at a calendar hanging in the kitchen on her way out the door, showing the date of June 20. As she sat, she was once more gripped by all the tragedy that had taken place since Jeremy had appeared on the beach at Dunkirk only twelve short days earlier.

  Nicolas emerged a few minutes later carrying two cups of coffee. “I knew I’d find you here.” He handed her one of the cups, and they sat next to each other on the steps.

  “When do you leave for Marseille?” Amélie inquired.

  He sniffed. “As soon as we finish this coffee.” He glanced at her. “I’ll miss you.”

  She tilted her head toward him. “You won’t have to. I’m coming with you.”

  Startled, he almost lost his coffee. “No,” he retorted. “You can’t.”

  “I can and I will.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m getting into.”

  “Exactly. No one does. It’s a war, and everyone will have to choose sides and fight, one way or another. If I go to help my father, he’ll send me away again. I can’t sit by and watch while so many people I love risk their lives.”

  “Men.” Nicolas enunciated the word. “Men fight the war.”

  “Not so,” Amélie retorted, her voice rising. “I distracted those soldiers the night we saved Jeremy, and you know what else I did. Kallsen. And when I went into that wine cellar in the bombed-out restaurant, there were men and women there, planning for action with the resistance.”

  Nicolas had no response.

  “I’m going, and that’s that.”

  Nicolas remained silent for a few minutes, deep in thought. “What about Chantal?”

  “I’ve thought of that. My cousins will look after her. We might see things differently about this war, but they love her, and she’ll be cared for.”

  “I’m going too,” Chantal said from behind them.

  Nicolas and Amélie whirled around. “How long have you been listening?” he demanded.

  “Long enough,” Chantal replied. “My sister is right. We all have to fight. I’m going with you.”

  “No,” Amélie said firmly. “You need to recover. Besides, you’re only fourteen.”

  “That was last week, and I’ve been feeling sorry for myself.” She stepped between them and pivoted to face them. “I can’t leave the fighting to everyone else.” She leaned over and kissed her sister’s forehead. Her voice caught. “Amélie, I’ll never forget how you fought for me.”

  Amélie stood and they embraced.

  Chantal pulled away. “Nicolas, your arrival is the first good thing that’s happened to us since that awful night. You woke me up.” She turned to Amélie. “Papa told us we’d have to grow up fast. I did. I feel like I’m forty-nine years old now, and I’m coming with you. There are things I can do, even if I just make meals for everyone else.”

  Seeing the hesitance in their eyes, Chantal added, “There’s a lot more I can do, I promise you.” She took a deep breath. “If I don’t go with you, I’ll leave on my own and find another group. Either way, I will fight.”

  Her expression changed to one of curiosity. “I have two questions. Why Marseille? Why not go help Papa?”

  “He would never let us,” Amélie cut in. “You know that.”

  Nicolas frowned and sighed. “To answer your questions, Chantal, there are two reasons: resistance in Marseille was organizing even before the war. I can’t say more about that now, but believe me, that reason alone is enough.

  “The second is that to get back north, we’d have to cross German lines again, and they’re much more dangerous now than a few days ago. I talked with my father about that last night. He got you out just in time.”

  “Isn’t he going back?”

  Nicolas grunted. “He is, and I wish he wouldn’t, but my mother is still there. He says that his wrinkles and gray hair will keep him from being detained, but if not, he’ll put on a show of being a most enthusiastic supporter of Pétain and admirer of Hitler.

  “I want to fight, but the risk of being found out at home is too high, since we’re of military age.” He grinned and corrected himself. “Well, Amélie and I are.”

  “I am too,” Chantal muttered stubbornly. “They just don’t know it.”

  26

  Marseille, France

  The train chugged into the Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles late in the afternoon. The crowds that Nicolas had witnessed bogging them down the previous day had thinned out. All of France seemed to be waiting with bated breath for the outcome of Pétain’s overtures to the Third Reich. Travel was also much more amiable, the passengers less frantic, more inclined to friendly exchanges, although an undercurrent of unease permeated with furtive glances and instances of suspicious stares.

  Nicolas and the Boulier sisters kept to themselves for the most part, only interacting with others when they needed to buy tickets or food. On arrival, they emerged and skirted the front of the station, descended a wide set of marble stairs, turned left onto Boulevard Marseillaises, found Boulevard d’Athenes, and there caught a bus for the beaches on Avenue du Prado.

  As they rode through the streets, they took in the relatively relaxed atmosphere, gaping at storefronts burgeoning with merchandise and customers carrying assortments of bags and boxes. Through the bus window, they peered into a grocery store that still flourished with full shelves and mounds of produce, and they passed sidewalk cafés with well-fed patrons enjoying the fair weather.

  As they drew near the beachfront, the sweet scent of the Mediterranean Sea greeted them. “Do you know where we’re going?” Amélie asked.

  “Jacques gave me good instructions,” Nicolas replied. “He’ll meet us in a café above the beach.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they sat in Café Gigi, trying not to stare at their surroundings. The contrast between this beach and the ones they had left at Dunkirk and Saint-Nazaire was stark.

  “Do they know we’re in a war?” Chantal whispered, glancing at customers enjoying a full fare of menu items including café au lait and pastries. The aroma blended with scents of spices and marinated beef wafting on the air.

  “They’re hoping the war won’t reach here,” Nicolas replied, “and depending on what Pétain does, it might never get here.”

  “But our countrymen are dying in the north,” Chantal hissed. “Don’t they care about France?”

  Amélie touched her wrist. “Keep your voice down,” she cautioned. “We don’t need to make enemies before we even start.”

  Chantal glowered at her. “But—”

  Amélie reminded herself that, despite Chantal having “grown up” in a week, she was still a girl, and an adolescent at that. She interrupted Chantal by squeezing her sister’s hand and diverting attention to Nicolas. “Now will you tell us what’s so special about Marseille?”

  Nicolas did not immediately respond. Instead, he observed Chantal intently. “Listen, my little cousin,” he said in a kindly tone that carried a stern note. “I love you, and I hate what happened to you, but if you’re going to participate in the resistance, you have a lot to learn, with more growing up to do. A lot of young people your age want to join, but not all of them can handle it. We have to be able to trust that you’ll keep secrets and won’t say or do something carelessly that could destroy an operation or even a whole network. People’s lives will depend on your integrity and competence. Do you understand?”

  Taken aback, Chantal stared at
him with wide eyes and nodded slowly. Amélie regarded him in a new light. The boy she had known only a week ago had matured into a man.

  A waiter brought them water and a menu. They ordered their beverages.

  When he had gone, Nicolas spoke again to Chantal. “I’m sorry to say things to you like I just did, but it’s better that you learn early.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “My father will go back to the hell that is now Dunkirk. On the way, and perhaps even there, he might have to pretend that he welcomes and sympathizes with the German invasion. He’ll feel like dying every time, but he’ll do it to stay in the fight.” He leaned over and kissed Chantal’s cheek. “Before this is over, we’ll all do repulsive things.”

  The sun had begun its descent. A cool breeze blew in from the sea, and with it the soft purr of waves breaking along the shore.

  Chantal put her arms around her cousin’s neck and nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ll learn.” She sniffed and sat up, wiping her eyes with a napkin.

  Amélie broke the tension. “Now, will you tell us about Marseille? And when will this famous Jacques get here?”

  Nicolas chuckled. “When he gets here. Soon.” He glanced around to check for listeners. “I don’t know a lot of specifics, but I can give you a general background. Marseille has always had a culture of independence, from when it first began as a Greek colony a couple of thousand years ago. Even when it was occupied by other armies in times past, its people found ways to rebel.

  “It’s our largest commercial city and port, and its position on the Mediterranean makes it a major trading hub. The Germans want it, but they’re already spread thin.” He smiled. “So we have time here to recruit and organize.”

  Amélie and Chantal regarded him in astonishment. “You were never any good in school,” Amélie said. “When did you get so smart?”

  “I was a terrible student.” Nicolas chuckled, squeezed Chantal’s hand, and kissed it. “As my young cousin knows, war makes a person grow up fast.” He shrugged. “Jacques and I had a long time to talk. He’s the reason I’m smart.” A sardonic grin crossed his face.

  The last fragment of the sun dipped below the horizon, and the waiter brought their meals. As he started back to the kitchen, Jacques appeared at their table, stopped the waiter, and quickly placed an order. Nicolas made introductions.

  “Ah, Amélie and Chantal,” Jacques said warmly, taking his seat. “I feel as though I know you. Your cousin talked about you both so much.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued.

  Jacques broke it. “I’m so sorry. I spoke out of turn. Nicolas told me what happened to you.”

  Amélie teared up. “Thank you for what you did for Jeremy,” she said softly.

  Jacques acknowledged her sentiment with a nod and a warm smile. After a moment, he said, “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “They want to join the resistance,” Nicolas said. “They threatened to look for another group if I didn’t bring them along, so…” In a brief aside, he related what had happened to Chantal at the hands of Kallsen and what Amélie had done about it.

  Jacques looked back and forth between Amélie and Chantal. “You’ve both been through a lot, but as bad as it’s been, it could get much worse. Some of our people will be captured, tortured, even killed.” He turned to Chantal. “Your age won’t matter to the Nazi SS or the Gestapo.”

  She nodded. “They won’t be expecting a girl my age to be active. I can move around in bad areas easier than you can.”

  Jacques scratched the back of his neck and inhaled deeply, obviously uncomfortable with the idea but seeing its merit. He shifted his gaze to Amélie. “And what about you? You’ve both been through incredible trauma.” He started to go on, but Amélie interrupted him.

  “Exactly,” she said, her voice cold and trembling but controlled. “We both need to fight back. That’s how we’ll keep our sanity. We were not brought up to be helpless.”

  Jacques stared into her eyes. The waiter brought his food, breaking the moment.

  “All right,” Jacques said when the waiter had left. “Let’s enjoy this evening. I have a place for you to stay tonight, and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  27

  Three days earlier, June 17

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  Jeremy struggled to lift little Timmy into the waiting arms of the rescuers on a small motor launch. For two hours he had held the toddler on a floating piece of wooden wreckage. It was large enough to hold the child, but too small to provide much room for Jeremy to grasp, and so he had treaded water much of the time while working hard to keep Timmy’s squirming body perched on the chunk of wreckage. His trousers and boots weighed him down and sapped his strength.

  When Timmy was safely aboard, strangers’ arms grasped Jeremy under his shoulders and lifted him into the boat. He sprawled on the floor between the other survivors’ ankles and feet until two men helped him recline on the wooden bench built into the side of the boat. One of them brought Timmy to him wrapped in a blanket. “His mother?” the man asked.

  Jeremy shook his head. He tried to speak but, overcome with emotion, he could not. He held Timmy close.

  “There, there,” the man said, “let’s see to the two of you. Maybe we’ll still find her.” He pointed across an expanse of ocean. “Do you see that ship? That’s the Oronsay. We’re taking you there. You’ll be in England tomorrow.”

  Jeremy nodded. That’s what I thought when I boarded the Lancastria.

  The sailor patted Timmy. “Your boy looks healthy enough. I think he’ll make it just fine.”

  The boat’s motor revved up, and they started toward the big vessel. Jeremy raised his head and looked around, realizing that the launch was loaded beyond capacity with other rescued soldiers. His mind drifted. Images of his leap off the ship with Eva plagued him. He had held Timmy close, cupping his hand over the child’s mouth and pinching his nose on the descent to keep the force of entry from driving water into the boy’s lungs. They made a clean plunge into the ocean, and Jeremy had swum back to the surface swiftly with the boy safely in his arms. Timmy had shrieked in terror on breaking into the air, but he had not swallowed much water, if any at all.

  Jeremy had looked wildly about for Eva, but she did not appear. Now, their leap replayed again and again in his mind. Eva had leapt at the same time Jeremy did, with her arms held close to her body. What happened to her? Did she hit someone? Did someone jump in on top of her?

  Her last words haunted him: “Just take care of Timmy.”

  “With my life,” he had replied. Now, as the launch plowed through the waves, Jeremy closed his eyes, dropped his head forward, and squeezed the boy.

  They arrived at the Oronsay. Jeremy waited numbly until crewmembers had helped the others board the ship before coming for him and Timmy. When at last they were on the undulating deck, Jeremy stumbled along, carrying the boy. Seeing the toddler in his arms, men in their path moved out of the way and nudged others to make room.

  Soon the two were inside, out of the weather. Jeremy nestled on the floor with Timmy in a corner by a bulkhead. Kindhearted soldiers brought him lemonade and sandwiches.

  No sooner had he settled in than the ship’s sirens blared. Seconds later, the drone of aircraft added to the warning of approaching bombers.

  Jeremy’s nerves froze. He squirmed around, facing into the bulkhead, and bent over to cover Timmy with his upper body. Other soldiers, seeing what he did, leaned over him against the wall to provide a further protective shield for the little boy.

  Timmy cried furiously. Falling bombs whistled. A thunderous explosion rocked the ship.

  For an indeterminate span of time, Jeremy held his position, rocking gently to quiet Timmy while visions of his earlier ordeal played non-stop in his head. Then, the men who had sheltered them straightened up.

  “All clear,” one of them said. “The bridge took a hit and the captain is wounded, but we’re not sinking.”

  Jeremy raised his eyes wearily to meet
those of the speaker and held up a hand in thanks. The soldier grasped it and shook it.

  “The engine is good,” the man said. “The steering was damaged, but the crew is putting together a work-around, so we should be all right for the time being.” He reached down and patted Timmy’s back. “How’s the lad?”

  Jeremy nodded without speaking.

  “Well, you’ll be in England tomorrow.”

  28

  Plymouth, England

  The HMT Oronsay tied up at a dock in mid-afternoon after a nerve-wracking voyage from Saint-Nazaire. The room that housed the charts, steering, and wireless had been destroyed, and the captain, Norman Savage, had broken his leg when the bomb hit, but with first aid treatment by good medics, and with his pocket compass, a sextant, and a sketch map, he steered his ship home.

  News of the little boy and the soldier who saved him had reached the captain during the night, and he invited them to make the crossing in his quarters so that the child could sleep. Crewmembers brought clothes for Jeremy, some makeshift diapers and a bit of milk and bread for Timmy. The toddler no longer cried, but he clung to Jeremy until finally he fell into deep, exhausted sleep.

  Jeremy waited a few minutes, then flipped off the lights and stepped across a narrow corridor into the bridge, closing the door softly behind him. Captain Savage sat in his chair behind the ship’s wheel with his injured leg propped up, his compass and sextant on his lap, studying his sketch map. His bridge crew went about their tasks.