The lane was long. There were puddles. All too soon she was drenched but couldn’t turn back, must never do that.
Down by the Transit Canal, the ruins of a textile mill offered temporary shelter but once inside it, rubble fell and she cried out in alarm, ‘CHLUS?’
More rubble fell. Rainwater gave a herculean flood to the broken lip of the floor above. As the water cascaded onto the concrete floor at her feet, sticks of lathe, boards and all sorts of rubbish were carried down.
‘CHLUS,’ she cried out. ‘I KNOW YOU’RE MARTIN’S FATHER.’
The rain didn’t stop. The sound of its waterfall was joined by that of others.
Once under the ceiling and behind the waterfall, she looked up in uncertainty. ‘Châlus,’ she murmured. The boy must be her hostage. The father would come to the son, and to the woman, to Angélique Bellecour.
The walk through Bois Carré in the rain was an agony of doubts and conflicting memories. The road south from Paris in June of 1940 came to her so clearly, Angélique heard the Messerschmitts and saw the people scatter. She heard Martin screaming for his father, felt Anthony push her away, heard his, ‘Damn you for stopping me.’
Saw him running towards that road, towards Martin. Heard herself crying out, ‘Anthony, you have to leave us!’ felt him fighting her as she held him. Tasted his tears, the fear, the rage at himself and at her. The bitter words.
Saw Martin as she got him off the road and to safety. ‘Martin, your father had to leave us!’
But had he really? Had he? She had wanted it so much, she had searched for him and for Martin again and again, and finding only Martin, had believed it.
The Oberst Lautenschläger was ahead of her, the Hauptmann Scheel behind. They passed through ferns and undergrowth that was so heavily laden with moisture, the fronds and branches all but touched the ground, and everywhere with the rain had come the smell of rusting iron, of mildew-laden cloth, corroding copper and bronze, and lead that had grown white from that other war.
She heard the Messerschmitts pass down over that road again and again and again, walked dazed and in shock amid the aftermath of each attack and saw the dead, the wounded, the horribly smashed-up families, the cars and wagons on fire, the heaps of burning mattresses, a boy beneath a heavyset man who had shielded him.
‘Martin … Martin, chéri, please put that thing down.’
‘NO!’
They had come to the edge of a clearing and were not far from a long ramp that lifted gracefully up through the trees in a gentle curve.
Shells … old shells … She read the warning notice beneath its skull and crossbones and sucked in a breath. There were rows and rows of them behind him. ‘Martin, it’s no use. We’ve lost. The Sturmbannführer Kraus and those with him are searching for your father. They’re burning the houses and barns.’
Still she hadn’t realized he had found his voice. She was still trying to lie to him. ‘He’s dead, Angélique.’
‘Dead … ?’ She turned away as if struck. ‘Martin, what is this you’re saying?’
‘He died on that road, Angélique. He was hit by the cannon shells. His back was all smashed to pieces and when I found him underneath a car, he stared at me but … but I couldn’t wake him up.’
Ah no … ‘Anthony? But … but that’s just not possible, Martin. We saw him get off the train at the control yesterday. We saw him in Paris, in the Jardin du Luxembourg.’
‘We didn’t! It was only someone who looked like him.’
‘Then he didn’t live in my flat?’
‘HOW COULD HE HAVE?’
‘Mademoiselle,’ interjected Lautenschläger. ‘The grenade. Please get him to put it down.’
She moved past the colonel, and when she reached the barbed wire, knew she could go no farther.
Martin was so pale and frightened—cold too, and wet right through. He was her son now—he had to be.
The handle of the stick grenade was clutched tightly in his right fist, the ring of the pull-cord hooked around the index finger of his left hand.
‘You lied to me,’ he said.
Rain washed the tears and plastered the reddish-brown hair to a brow that was so like Anthony’s. It made the ears that stuck out so awkwardly look bigger still. ‘I lied to myself,’ she said. ‘I had to believe your father got safely away.’
‘DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!’ he shrilled and, startled, she saw that the colonel and the Hauptmann Scheel had found a plank to place over the barbed wire.
‘Chéri, let them put it down. I want to hold you, Martin. I need to talk to you. We belong together, you and me.’
‘They can do it, but mustn’t come any closer than yourself.’
‘I stopped Kraus from shooting him,’ said Lautenschläger, ‘but the next time I won’t be so lucky.’
She thanked him and said that he had always been very kind to her and Martin.
The hem of her dress caught on the wire and she had to stop to free it. The board was narrow, and once she slipped and nearly fell.
Crouching, she looked at Martin and he at her. ‘Shall we die together?’ she asked, and when he didn’t answer, said, ‘Maybe we should vote on it, eh? If your father is really dead, then who has been living in my flat and keeping my things for me?’
‘The Lieutenant Thiessen.’
‘And doesn’t he look like your father?’
‘A little.’
‘And isn’t he the Résistance leader we saw at the control dressed as a priest?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Then your father didn’t die on that road, Martin. You were mistaken.’
‘I wasn’t.’
She felt the backs of his fingers touch her cheek to try to still her trembling lips. She said, ‘Chéri, are you certain?’
‘Positive. I took the pencil from his pocket, Angélique. I knew he would have wanted me to have it.’
‘The grenade,’ said Lautenschläger and saw her gingerly take it from the boy to stand with it in her hand.
‘Please leave us,’ she said. ‘Martin, make sure they do, then come back. I’ll wait for you.’
Anthony had died on that road. Anthony was gone from her.
Not even the constant rain could detract from the place. The farm of Alphonse Diard and family was well to the north of Bois Carré, much closer to the Forêt de Crécy and far better, far richer than most. It possessed a fine, turreted house of red brick that had been all but untouched by the Blitzkrieg of 1940 and was more like a small château. Had it not been for one of the other farmers confessing to having seen the parachutist being hidden here, they would not have come so far.
‘I want him,’ seethed Kraus. ‘I want the two Banditen who came from Paris to spy on the installations at Bois Carré and the other sites, and then to take the parachutist into safe hiding.’
This was outrageous. ‘Ah, mon Dieu, Major, we wouldn’t hide such people,’ said Diard firmly. ‘The Oberst Lautenschläger considers myself and my wife and family loyal subjects and, yes, friends. Please consult him. He will vouch for us.’
‘There isn’t time.’
‘We supply the barracks in Abbeville and Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme with many things.’
‘There still isn’t time.’
‘The colonel drinks my Calvados and eau-de-vie de poire.’
‘He’ll soon be on his way home so if I were you, I wouldn’t count on him.’
The barns and other buildings were some distance from the house and downwind of it. This one’s guard dogs had set up a racket at the intrusion of others and had had to be shot.
‘Our dogs found a kerchief in the loft under that mountain of hay you’ve been keeping up there,’ said Kraus.
‘I know nothing of that!’
They were all alike, the French. They lied to save themselves. ‘Then how is it a girl�
�s kerchief was found in the largest of your barns?’
‘One of my daughters must have misplaced it.’
‘Under the hay?’
The thing was of a soft beige. Had they planted it themselves? wondered Diard. ‘No such people have entered that barn or any of the others without our hearing of it! The dogs, n’est-ce pas? The ones you had killed. They used to make such a racket if even a stray cat came by. One they didn’t know, that is.’
Turning away to confront the wife, the daughters and the son, a boy of fourteen, Kraus knew what he had to do. All were being held by the arms by men of the Waffen-SS. The farm help had been herded against one of the turret walls and now huddled in terror, drenched to the skin.
The dogs were waiting.
‘Ach, we know the parachutist was dropped near Bois Carré last week,’ he said, deliberately looking off towards the woods, which were far to the south and not visible in the rain or at any other time, so good, yes, good. An excellent place to lie up. ‘We know the evaders, the terrorists you harboured and fed—yes, fed!—must have gone that way.’
He threw out an arm to stiffly point towards Bois Carré, then turned back. ‘Now it’s simple. Either you confess and tell us what you’re hiding, or we’ll persuade you.’
The garden in front of the house was being ruined by uncaring jackboots. ‘Please, I beg you, Sturmbannführer, this is all a mistake. As God is my witness, we know nothing of this. My dogs would have given fair warning and I would immediately have sent word to the colonel after first having apprehended the villains with pitchforks.’
Then why the tears if such a loyal citizen, why the stench of fear and panic? ‘Start with the youngest daughter,’ said Kraus, tossing his head her way. ‘Strip her, then let’s hear what he has to say.’
‘NO! I BEG YOU, MONSIEUR.’
It was the son who, pale and shaken and in tears, blurted, ‘Papa, forgive me. I hushed the dogs and let those two stay in our barn. I did it for France.’
‘ANTOINE!’
They all began to shriek. Forced to his knees, the son cried out, ‘THEY WERE EXHAUSTED FROM RUNNING AND HAD COME A LONG WAY TODAY. THE GIRL HAD TWISTED HER ANKLE. THEY SAID THEY WOULD LEAVE AS SOON AS THEY HAD RESTED UP A LITTLE AND THEY DID!’
The boy’s cheeks were fair but flushed with alarm, the eyes those of the mother. ‘When did they leave and which way were they headed?’ asked Kraus.
The boy swallowed and shook his head but confessed when the clothes of the younger sister were torn from her and she cowered among the men.
‘At … at about two o’clock this afternoon and … and heading towards Bois Carré, I think.’
The kerchief had been used to bind the injured ankle. There was blood on it and scraps of skin and rust—a piece of metal had done this, an accident, but not a sprain. A girl from Paris, a student in the guise of a novice, and now … ‘What was she wearing?’
Perhaps the boy didn’t hear or comprehend. When repeated, the question came as a shriek that made him jump, and through the blubbering came, ‘Trousers of … of a dark brown corduroy, a … a blouse of dark brown and … and a cardigan, brown also.’
Châlus … She had been with Raymond Châlus. ‘And the parachutist?’ asked Kraus, straightening.
When no answer came and only the sound of the rain intruded, he grabbed the sister by the hair and pulled her over to her brother. Forcing her to her knees, he said, ‘Answer or I will give her to the men.’
‘They … they didn’t say anything of a parachutist, monsieur.’
‘Nothing?’
‘ME, I DON’T THINK THEY WERE AWARE OF ONE!’
Crumpling the kerchief into a ball, Kraus furiously jammed it into the boy’s mouth and threw the sister from himself.
‘Let him listen to her screams, then kill them all and burn the place. I want Châlus. I will have Châlus and the parachutist and the student, the others too, all of them.’
The réseau de soie bleue would be finished—stamped out. Erased from the face of the earth.
The smell of broken geranium stems rose from the ground with the rain but the Oberst Lautenschläger had refused to leave. And when he told Angélique Bois Carré had been cleared of all others but Martin, the Hauptmann Scheel and themselves, she again asked him to leave and this time to take Martin with him. ‘Get him well away from here.’
She was determined and very upset, had suffered a great loss, but still didn’t comprehend the magnitude of what she intended. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘There are enough shells in that dump to kill or maim for life all who are downwind of us for ten or even twenty kilometres—I really don’t know how far. That gas will drift into the hollows, Mademoiselle Bellecour. Every living thing in its path will experience terrible blisters, the agony of burning eyes and lungs, blindness and choking, the coughing up of blood. What you intend will put this site completely out of bounds for months. It lingers.’
‘The Führer will have you arrested,’ she said. ‘He’ll hold you responsible, won’t he?’
There was much sadness and genuine regret in her voice.
When he didn’t say anything but stood at the other end of the plank that lay across the barbed wire, she asked, ‘What is it you are building here?’
‘That doesn’t concern you.’
He looked old and grey in the rain, a big man, a giant stooped and, yes, still uncertain of her. ‘I’m afraid it very much does, Colonel, since we are on opposite sides of this war.’
Lieber Gott, she was going to do it!
‘Please see that Martin is looked after and not sent to any internment camp. Please leave me to myself. The Sturmbannführer Kraus may be downwind of us with those men of his. I hope so, Colonel. I really do hope so.’
Verdammt! was there nothing he could do? ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Have a thought for others.’
‘And you, Colonel? Do you have such a thought here? What is that ramp for?’
‘Flying bombs,’ said an intruding voice in very good French.
Lautenschläger swiftly turned towards it, Angélique gasped and heard herself saying, ‘The priest … The girl of the vélo-taxi.’
They stood among the waist-high ferns and underbrush and yes, they looked exhausted, the girl in severe pain. And yes, the man with her had a revolver.
‘Châlus,’ he said of himself and then, ‘This is my comrade in arms, Yvette.’
He did look like Anthony. He was of about the same age but a little older perhaps. He even had the same big, awkward ears that stuck out and made of him an overgrown elf, the same high, narrow brow, pointed chin, long nose and curious way of always seeking the most minute of details even when firmly decided.
Thin … Anthony had been thin, she told herself and said, ‘Anthony, is it really you?’
* And many more right to the Pas de Calais and into Belgium
* A lance corporal
* Later this camp was moved to Vittel, American women then joining them there in the autumn of 1942.
10
It was getting dark now and in the ruins of the textile mill Marie-Hélène hesitated. She knew one of them was watching her but where was he?
Rainwater still dripped and pooled and ran everywhere. The growing dusk made deeper still the shadows of canted iron beams and splintered timbers, mangled gearboxes and looms whose frames were horribly twisted. And all was seen against the shreds of clothing and cloth that were caught and hanging as if on laundry lines like rags.
And everywhere there was the smell of wet wool, old and broken bricks and concrete dust. Father Nicolas and the others were hunting for her, she trying now only to escape, to reach Kraus and tell him everything. She had come down a staircase so littered and heaped with rubble, the sudden avalanche of it had constantly threatened. She had sought a way out on the floor above but had been turned back by the tangle of wreckage.
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br /> Châlus … was it Châlus who was watching her? If so, he would be remembering Lyon and the réseau Perrache, would know she had followed first one and then another and another of his people and had accumulated name after name because she had been good at it, the best.
He would know that even after all but himself had been arrested, many had been horribly tortured in the search for his whereabouts and maybe this would weigh on his conscience and maybe it wouldn’t. The cellars of the Hôtel Terminus, eh, Châlus? she taunted silently. The one who had her toenails ripped out only to have the torture stopped as Hans had come into the room to quietly talk to her over a cigarette and a cup of coffee—coffee!—how could Hans have thought of such a thing? The woman had been stark naked, so terrified and in such shock and pain she hadn’t comprehended a thing he had said to her and hadn’t even realized her fists had been clenched so hard, the fingernails had driven themselves deeply into her palms.
Others had been strung up by the wrists or ankles and savagely beaten. Others had been dragged screaming to a bathtub full of ice-cold water only to have their screams, their futile struggles stilled until, gasping for air and vomiting—panicking—they had been shrieked at again and again: ‘WHERE IS CHLUS?’ and nearly drowned once more. Kicking, thrashing, their naked buttocks upended—men, women, young boys and girls, what had it really mattered if in the end he had been caught?
Oh yes, Châlus would understand that for the réseau de soie bleue and for his son and Angélique Bellecour, only one person stood between them and death.
She chanced a step and when she saw Father Nicolas, she saw the iron bar in his hands.
‘That’s far enough,’ he said. ‘You can’t escape us this time.’
She sensed that, yes, someone was behind her. Châlus … Was it Châlus?
She turned and fired. Father Nicolas gave a shriek of rage and rushed at her. The bar hit something metal and bounced, knocking the Luger from her hand. Ah no … NO! ‘Let go of me!’ she shrieked and bit and kicked. He dragged her down. Her head hit something sharp. He was too strong for her. He was pinning her arms to the rubble … ‘HONORÉ!’ he yelled. ‘HONORÉ!’
The Little Parachute Page 29