The fireman looked unsure, but after a few seconds he made a gesture with his hand. ‘Two streets over that way there’s a road with a couple of second-hand shops. But right now there are certain things that can’t be had for any amount of money and I suspect wheeled carts are one of them.’
Paul looked dejected as they turned away.
‘There is one thing,’ the fireman called after them, brightening up as he pointed in the opposite direction. ‘You could try St Peter’s church. The priest has been helping out refugees all week. It’s a two-minute walk and if there’s anyone who can help you, he’s your man.’
‘Thanks,’ Rosie said, smiling. ‘We’ll give it a go.’
They dragged the cases for another hundred metres until they found a side street with a gothic church behind tall iron gates. It was approaching the middle of the day and with the sun high, the church’s well-tended garden and neat surrounding lawns made an extraordinary oasis amidst the chaos of the bombed town. But as the siblings passed through the gates, they were shocked by a line of bodies. They had all been covered with sheets or clothing, but in many cases blood had soaked through and flies swarmed to the smell.
‘It’s you!’ Hugo said excitedly, as he ran out of the church doorway, pointing at the largest of the bodies. ‘There’s your daddy. I told them about you, but I don’t know your names.’
Paul was stunned by the reappearance of his dad, but the real horror was the two bodies of young children laid out alongside. None of the deaths was just, but the death of kids too small to even know what war was seemed like the worst thing of all.
‘Did you find your mummy?’ Rosie asked.
Hugo nodded, before pointing into the distance. ‘They took her away. These are ones nobody knows.’
‘Hello,’ a priest said brightly, as he stepped into the sun from the church’s main archway. He was tall, thin and had a huge growth on one side of his nose. ‘I’m Father Leroy. Do you two need any assistance?’
‘The boy and girl from the dead man!’ Hugo explained excitedly, which was enough to stop the priest in his tracks.
‘My children,’ he said softly. ‘Bless you. Come inside and we can talk.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As Marc stood under the porch waiting for the storm to pass, he recalled Director Tomas’ many lectures on the places where hooligans like him could end up if they continued to misbehave. France had a brutal penal system that ran from rat-infested dungeons with twenty men crammed into each cell, to labour camps and penal colonies where twelve-hour shifts and starvation rations were the norm.
Marc had already stolen from the director and run away, but those crimes were within the bounds of the orphanage. Tomas would have been within his rights to call in the police, but he’d never do so because beating the daylights out of his charges gave him such pleasure.
But however horrible the orphanage could be, the director was a devil Marc knew. If he was caught breaking into a house in Paris, he’d face punishment by police and the courts. He neither knew nor understood these forces, but the prospect of a Paris jail cell chilled his heart.
Against this, Marc weighed the extraordinary filth he’d seen inside Dormitory Raquel and the fact that sooner or later the director’s savings would run out and he’d have no option but to break the law to survive. Everything in life costs and he was too young for an honest job.
If he didn’t break into the house now it was only delaying the inevitable and the obvious absence of the owner, combined with the overgrown hedges shielding the view from the street, made this a great opportunity. The only thing was, Marc didn’t have a clue how to break into a house.
When the sun finally broke between two banks of cloud, Marc stepped off the porch and began a circuit of the building. His white shirt was now grey from the falling ash and his eyes still stung, but the rain had scrubbed the air and Marc felt as if he was breathing properly for the first time since he’d left the countryside.
He had to battle shrubs and branches as he searched for an easy way in. Most of the shutters were closed, but where he could see inside he was reassured by rolled-up rugs and covers over all the furniture.
Marc hadn’t found the soft entry point he’d hoped for, but the best option seemed to be a small window made from frosted glass slats. He wasn’t tall enough to reach it easily, so he dragged a metal dustbin from the back of the house and stood on top.
It was easy to put his fingers between two slats and pull on them. There was a squeal as all six swivelled into a horizontal position, giving him a good view into a bathroom. Directly beneath the window was a washbasin, with a spider’s web spanning the taps and the edge of the bowl. Across the room was a toilet, a bidet and a large bath standing on four tarnished feet. Like the house itself, the fixtures were grand but clearly a few decades past their prime.
If he could get two or three slats out, Marc thought he’d be able to slide through the window and drop down on to the sink. He began with an experimental pull on a slat, then he gave it a wiggle, but it clearly wasn’t going to be that easy.
Marc studied the rusted metal frame into which each slat was mounted. The slats were joined to the frame by a screw at each end and although he didn’t have a screwdriver, he reckoned he’d be able to loosen the screw at each end using the director’s hunting knife and then pull them out.
He stumbled as he jumped down off the bin, but he wasn’t hurt and within half a minute he’d grabbed the hunting knife out of the pigskin bag and was trying to get the sharp edge of the blade into a screw head. However, the blade wasn’t really the right width and even when he did manage to get the blade in line to apply some force, the screw didn’t budge because it was held in with thick rust.
Marc groaned, but he was determined and he kept trying. Reaching between the slats for the screw head was an awkward job and after five minutes his shoulder ached and his only achievement was a bloody thumb.
As the knife slipped for the umpteenth time, Marc gave one of the glass slats a final, desperate yank. A chunk of mortar dropped from the gap between the brickwork and the rusty frame holding the slats in place.
Marc studied the gap and noticed that the mortar was badly cracked and crumbled away when he dug it with his thumbnail. He lined the point of the knife up with the hole left behind by the mortar and pushed forwards with a stabbing motion. His reward was a shower of dust, but several more stabs enabled him to make a clear hole between the bricks and the metal. Marc smiled as he pushed the knife into the hole and made the plaster crumble using a sawing motion.
Within a minute he’d cleared a twenty-centimetre gap between frame and wall, but he was making noise, so he decided to stop and make sure he hadn’t caught anyone’s attention. After jumping down and sweeping the loose dust from what was now a filthy set of clothes, he walked back towards the street and peered through the hedge.
A couple of men were trudging up the hill and, judging by their rough appearance, they were heading for the Dormitory Raquel. They probably wouldn’t have heard, but he gave them time to pass before going back to work.
Before long Marc had chipped out all of the mortar along one side of the window. He gave the metal bar holding the slats an experimental knock. The glass shuddered but the mortar at the opposite end snapped away in chunks.
The whole window was about to crash inside, making a noise that would be heard half a street away. Marc gripped one of the slats, but the combined weight of glass and metal was enough to twist his wrist around painfully, until he dropped the knife and steadied the opposite end with his other hand.
It was awkward, but he pulled the entire window out of the surrounding brickwork and ditched it on top of an overgrown shrub with little more than the sound of rustling branches, followed by a metallic clank. It was quite an achievement, and Marc was pleased.
After grabbing the pigskin bag and hooking it over his back, he placed his palms against the brick window ledge and pulled his legs up. With the whole window out
there was plenty of room to get through, but he didn’t fancy dropping head first on to the sink, so he had an awkward time swinging his legs in front of his body so that he could lower himself into the sink boots first.
Following a quick jump out of the bowl, he stumbled one step forwards on the tiled floor and came to a halt in the middle of the bathroom. Elated, but still scared, he turned the tap and, after a few coughs from the plumbing, clean water spluttered out, washing away the remains of the spider’s web.
Marc cleaned the grit off his hands and arms, then splashed some water up into his face. He glanced at himself in a circular shaving mirror and was surprised by how filthy he was. It was no wonder that the woman in the café had turned her nose up.
He moved out into the hallway, where he was confronted by a gas boiler and a light switch. The pilot light on the boiler was out, but he’d seen the nuns using a similar system on bath-night at the orphanage and he thought he might be able to figure out how to get it going and get some hot water for a bath. He didn’t expect anything when he flicked the light switch, but was startled when three uplighters projected Vs of light along the hallway walls.
The first doorway led into a kitchen. The cupboards were mostly bare, but a few odd tins remained and Marc noted that the writing on some of them was in English. There was also an English packet containing something called Bird’s Custard and three tall bottles of HP Sauce.
The living room was large, and sparsely furnished. Marc felt a touch creepy as the dark boards creaked under his boots. He raised some of the dust sheets for a peek and discovered a radio, a collection of ornate vases in a glass cabinet and a bookcase filled with books. Some were French, but the majority were in English and Marc thought this was a good sign because it seemed highly unlikely that an Englishman would be returning to Paris any time soon.
With his skin and clothes filthy from the rain, Marc decided that his first priority was to have a wash. Then he’d put on the spare clothes he’d taken off the line at the orphanage and have a nap, because he was exhausted. When he woke up, he’d go out and buy some food, or perhaps even investigate the cinema he’d seen by the shops.
Everything felt better now that he had somewhere to stay. His problems weren’t all over, but the idea that he was free to walk the streets of Paris and see a real movie in a real cinema and come home to sleep in a proper bed seemed impossibly exciting.
The good times would only last until the Germans reached town, but that gave him a few days to make plans and learn some of the life skills he’d need if he was going to survive on his own for any length of time.
Marc unbuttoned his shirt as he walked out into the hallway. Before turning towards the bathroom, he noticed a few letters on the doormat and realised that they would tell him the name of the person whose house he had just broken into.
He picked up the most flamboyant letter – a mint-coloured envelope that contained something stiff, like a greeting card or a party invitation – and read the name out loud.
‘Mr Charles Henderson.’
Part Two
14 June 1940 – 15 June 1940
By 11 June the French Government had left Paris and German forces were within ten kilometres of the city. Fearing a bloodbath, citizens continued to pour out and less than half of the population remained.
On the night of the 13ththe French Military Command stated that it ‘aimed to spare Paris the devastation that defence of the city would involve. We cannot justify the sacrifice of our capital and, as a result, all French forces will withdraw to a new line south of Paris.’
The German Army announced that it would enter Paris from the north-west at noon the following day.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
While most of Paris fretted over its destiny, Marc Kilgour had enjoyed the most exciting week of his life. He’d been to the cinema every afternoon, watching The Wizard of Oz four times, along with propaganda-packed news bulletins, American westerns and French detective movies. He’d ridden the Metro, visited the Champs Elysées and stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower. He would have gone to the top, but it was closed because of the air raids.
Charles Henderson’s home provided him with electric light, cooking gas and hot water. There was even a telephone and he’d briefly considered ringing the orphanage to tease Director Tomas about how he was spending his savings. But Marc didn’t know the orphanage number and wasn’t sure if the call might somehow give his location away.
He slept on a comfortable bed with Egyptian cotton sheets and after a dodgy start he’d even prepared a couple of reasonable meals. But with the north cut off by Germans and the roads south clogged with refugees and French troops, you had to queue for even the simplest items and armed police stood outside bakeries to stop bread queues from turning violent.
Marc had gradually gained a sense of how much things cost and had worked out that Director Tomas’ savings would last him for two to three months; as long as he didn’t have to worry about paying rent. Unlike the elderly and impoverished citizens who remained in Paris – the young and wealthy having mostly got out – Marc could afford to eat in cafés, which seemed to be suffering from a lack of customers rather than food.
Waiters also provided rare opportunities for conversation, because the biggest problem with Marc’s new lifestyle was loneliness. He never imagined that he’d miss the constant buzz of the orphanage, but he often found himself craving a friend and when he was alone in the house he voiced his most poignant thoughts to an imaginary Jae Morel.
The air raids were worst at night, but mostly concentrated on the city centre. Cafés and cinemas were forced to shut at six o’clock, so he spent most evenings reading in Henderson’s living room, with the bay window open and occasional interruptions from insects flying inside from the overgrown garden.
Marc had always enjoyed books, but there were none at the orphanage and even when he had a reading book from school he could only find peace to read in the fields out back. So far he’d got through two of Henderson’s French novels and struggled with an antique book of folk tales written in German.
Marc knew a fair amount of the language thanks to a half-German schoolmaster who’d given his brightest pupils after-school tuition. The passages Marc couldn’t understand were easily filled in by studying the beautiful illustrations, which came in full colour and were embossed with gold and silver leaf. Unfortunately, most of Henderson’s books were in English and Marc didn’t understand a word of it.
*
Henderson’s bedroom contained a double bed that seemed impossibly luxurious compared to the dusty, pee-stained excuses for beds at the orphanage. But best of all was the fact that he didn’t have Director Tomas whacking him on the arse if he didn’t jump out of bed the instant he was told to.
Freedom was good, Paris was pretty special; but spending half a morning drooling on a pillow and knowing that you didn’t have to get up was the best thing of all. What’s more, the Germans had stopped bombing when the French announced the city’s surrender, so Marc was enjoying his most peaceful lie-in ever when the house shook with such violence that his skull thumped painfully against the headboard.
A great roar erupted over the brow of the hill and when Marc pulled the curtains he saw a vast, mushroom-shaped fireball towering into the sky. But there were no planes and the explosion was twenty times bigger than any bomb he’d seen up to now.
The heat on the glass was intense, and as Marc heard saucepans clattering downstairs in the kitchen and a glass cabinet toppling in the living room, he was astonished to see a dozen people gathered at the bottom of the hill near the church. They held hands over brows to shield the glare, but looked oddly calm – as if they were watching a firework display, rather than facing the random threat of an air raid.
Alarmed and mystified, Marc pulled on his trousers and boots before buttoning his shirt and bounding downstairs. More blasts erupted as he glanced into the living room and confirmed his worst fears about the cabinets.
Alt
hough the spare house-key Marc found in Henderson’s study meant he could now use the front door, he still had no right to be in the house and he steered clear of the neighbours.
After ducking under the hedges enveloping the front gate, he looked to the top of the hill and saw that many of the men from the Dormitory Raquel also stood in the street, watching the receding flames. Smaller explosions continued to rumble, and it was fortunate that the wind was carrying the plumes of smoke away from them.
Running might attract undue attention, so Marc walked briskly downhill, patting his pockets for change to make sure that he had enough for an early lunch or late breakfast. Even though, on his daily trips to the cinema, he passed the café whose owner had directed him towards the Dormitory Raquel, he’d never eaten there again because he’d discovered a little place run by an Italian family not far from the church. The food was much better and Livia – the owner’s teenaged daughter – had huge breasts.
Livia, her father, her grandmother and several customers lined up in front of the café, admiring the flames.
‘Marc,’ the elderly grandmother said, smiling brightly. ‘How’s your uncle today?’
Café Roma was frequented by locals, and the first time Marc went inside he’d mentioned that he was staying with a sick uncle, deliberately remaining vague about exactly where he lived. Marc wasn’t proud of the lie, but the old woman called him a little trooper and never missed an opportunity to overfill his plate or give him a free glass of her chocolate mousse.
Marc would happily have exchanged all of the mousse in Paris for a single smile from her well-endowed granddaughter, but all Livia ever did was slam down plates and scowl at Marc like he was something stuck on her shoe.
‘My uncle isn’t too bad today,’ Marc said, as he tried desperately to remember yesterday’s lie so that he didn’t repeat it. ‘I gave him a shave and helped him in the bath.’
The Escape Page 10