Children of the Siege

by Diney Costeloe

  The government troops were establishing themselves in key positions in the city, moving slowly but steadily through the streets and as dusk turned to dark, and Jeannot’s crew laboured on yet another barrier of paving stones and bags of earth, an advance patrol came upon them unexpectedly and opened fire. Everyone dived for cover, the workers scattering into the nearby streets, some of the guards firing back from the protection of their newly created barrier. Jeannot ran like a hare, vanishing into the maze of streets beyond the Madeleine. Once out of the immediate danger area, he got his bearings and began making his way back to the Monkey and Paul in their cellar. He’d spend the night sheltering with them and decide his next move in the morning.

  *

  As soon as Jeannot had left that morning, Alphonse jerked his thumb at Hélène who was curled up in a corner, fast asleep.

  ‘What are we going to do with her?’ he asked.

  Edith shrugged. ‘Keep her for a day or two, I suppose,’ she replied, ‘as long as Jeannot brings us enough food. If he don’t, she’ll have to go.’

  Hélène kept her eyes closed, maintaining her pretence of sleep, but she listened to what they were saying and made up her mind. She didn’t like ‘Tante Edith’, who looked at her with such coldness in her eyes. She didn’t know why. What had she done? She hadn’t asked to come here, but she knew that Edith didn’t like her and didn’t want her there. And what if Tante Edith went out somewhere? She might be left alone with the weird ‘Oncle Alphonse’, who coughed and wheezed and spat and looked at her sideways; the thought terrified her.

  Where was Georges? And Marcel? They’d be worried sick about her when she and Jeannot didn’t come back home as they’d been told to. She looked at the front door. It was stout with a heavy bolt drawn across it. What would happen, she wondered, if she simply got up and walked out? What would the old couple do? Would they try and stop her, or would they simply be glad to see the back of her? The trouble was that, once again, she didn’t know where she was or the way home. Just as soon as Jeannot came back she’d insist he took her there.

  But Jeannot didn’t come back. The three of them sat in the apartment all day and waited. They could hear the continuous rumble of the guns and neither of the Bergers was prepared to venture out. Hélène thought of what Jeannot had said. Her home was ‘in the target area’. Perhaps her home wasn’t even standing now.

  The basement apartment was dim at the best of times, with only one grimy window looking out into a tiny yard, and as twilight deepened to night, they all sat in the gloom.

  ‘Buggered off again,’ remarked Alphonse, when there was still no sign of Jeannot. ‘Or killed in the bombing.’

  ‘Oh, Alphonse,’ Edith gave a cry of distress, ‘don’t say things like that. He must come home again. He’s promised to bring some more food.’

  ‘Promised?’ sniffed Alphonse. ‘What are promises to boys like him?’

  ‘He came back last time,’ Edith reminded him.

  ‘Only ’cos I found him laying in the gutter and we brought him in.’

  ‘He’ll come, I know he will,’ Edith said, but Hélène could see that her lip trembled.

  She clenched her fists, determined not to cry, but Alphonse’s words echoed in her head: ‘Or killed in the bombing.’ The rumble of the guns had been constant, all day, so people must be getting killed.

  Why hasn’t he come back? wondered Hélène in panic. What will happen to me if Jeannot has been killed? And if he hasn’t, where is he?

  Edith lit a small lamp and by its light she prepared another meal of soup. It was a great improvement on the soup they’d been given at St Luke’s, hot and thickened with potatoes. She shared it out into three bowls and handed Hélène the smallest portion.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hélène said meekly. ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘Not the sort of food you’ll be used to, I dare say,’ said Edith with a sniff. ‘But when you stay with paupers you eat paupers’ food.’

  There seemed no answer to that and the three of them ate their food in silence, all of them listening for the clatter of boots on the steps outside, the sound of Jeannot’s return.

  Edith cleared away the bowls and then found a blanket which she gave to Hélène.

  ‘We’re turning in now,’ she said. ‘You can sleep in here in front of the fire. You’ll hear Jeannot when he knocks, but don’t open the door. Wake us and Alphonse will come and do it.’

  There was no knock in the night and no sign of Jeannot in the morning. They could hear the battle for Paris raging across the city and they all knew that Jeannot would not be coming back.

  ‘I’ll go for food,’ Edith said, putting her shawl about the shoulders and picking up a basket. ‘We have to have something or we will starve.’

  Realising that her worst fears were about to come true, Hélène said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Edith was about to snub her offer with a brisk negative, but she caught herself in time. Perhaps they might have more luck with a child begging as well.

  ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Alphonse, you wait here, so you can tell Jeannot where we are when he gets back.’

  Alphonse grunted, but made no other comment. He was afraid to go out into streets that were a battlefield, and was glad Edith had told him to stay at home. He hoped that she would be successful in her search for food – surely some bakers were still at work, people had to eat after all – but since the government troops had been besieging the city, no fresh food had come in from the countryside. Well enough for those who had laid in supplies when it was clear there was going to be war again, but they’d had no money for such luxuries, living from hand to mouth, each day, every day.

  Edith and Hélène climbed the steps up to the lane and set off towards the main road. Edith didn’t speak to her and Hélène was pleased. She was working on a plan. It was a bright day, and the May sun was warm on her face. It was early yet, but she had already decided that when they were away from that dreadful alley where the Gaston-man had cornered them, she was going to slip away from Jeannot’s Tante Edith. She hated being cooped up in the basement apartment. It was small and cold and poky and it smelled of… Oncle Alphonse. Yes, it smelled of Oncle Alphonse. She had found her way home before by keeping the sun on her face. She could do it again.

  She didn’t let her mind wonder what she was going to do if the house had been ruined in the cannonade.

  Edith led the way through narrow streets to a boulangerie. The door was open and when she went in the baker greeted her by name.

  ‘You’re in luck, Madame Berger,’ he said. ‘I kept a few loaves back for my regulars.’

  Although he had saved some, the price was high and Edith winced as she handed over the two francs he asked for. He reached under the counter and produced two loaves. ‘Only two,’ he said as she put them into her basket and covered them with a cloth.

  Two francs for just two loaves of bread! Her small stock of cash was almost halved. Further on she managed to buy a cabbage and three potatoes, and a meat bone from the butcher, but the prices were incredibly high. How she missed Jeannot’s talent for finding ‘free’ food. If he wasn’t back with some soon, that girl would definitely have to go. She looked around as she came out of the butcher’s, but the girl was nowhere in sight. She stood for a moment, looking along the street, but there was no sign of her.

  You take the girl in and feed her and then she runs off, thought Edith angrily. Well, good riddance. With her acquisitions safely in her basket she set off for home. They would eat for another day or so, and one less mouth to feed was good news!

  Hélène had watched Edith enter the butcher’s shop and had made her decision. She was going home. With a quick glance through the window she saw Edith haggling with the butcher over a marrow bone and hid in a doorway further down the street. She watched as Edith came out of the shop, looked about for her and then marched off down the street. Once the old woman was out of sight, Hélène emerged from the doorway and set off in the other di
rection.

  27

  Marcel returned only once to the Avenue Ste Anne. The district had been pounded by both sides, but even so, despite the destruction caused, once the bombardment had ceased the invading French army had been welcomed by the prosperous inhabitants of Passy. Few people in Passy and the surrounding districts had any love for the Communards, and those that had not left long ago had now come out of hiding and were trying to return to some sort of normality. The area was filled with government troops, moving openly without threat or danger. Marcel had taken the precaution of putting on workman’s clothes, disguising himself as Georges had done so often before. He moved confidently along the avenue, knowing that if by any remote chance he were to be recognised, he could bluff his way out of trouble as he had when he’d taken Georges to Dr Simon. Though there was considerable damage in some of the nearby streets, it was with great relief that Marcel saw that their house seemed undamaged; at least Hélène had shelter to come back to. He continued to move with extreme caution as he approached the house, but no one challenged him and he reached the gate in the lane without trouble. He knew Georges was safe enough with Dr Simon, but he was worried sick about Hélène. Was it possible she was back now? If he could see her, or even leave a written message for her in the stable, he could at least reunite her with Georges and they would both be safe enough with Dr Simon now the fighting had moved on.

  He opened the unlocked gate and moved stealthily across the garden to the stable, but when he opened the door he found it empty and it was clear that no one had been there since he had. Hélène had not been back. Where on earth were they, she and Jeannot? Had they not escaped when they’d left Georges? He had no idea where Jeannot might have taken her. Why hadn’t the damned boy done as he was told and brought her home again that night? Had they been killed or wounded? How could he find out? Where could he begin to look?

  For a moment despair overtook him and he sank down onto a straw bale, burying his head in his hands. The war, the siege, the renewed fighting had torn his family apart.

  He sat for a long time, his thoughts bleak, his mind exhausted. What should he do? What could he do? Should he go back to Georges and tell him that Hélène was missing again? No point in that, he decided. There was nothing Georges could do to find her, laid up with his leg in splints; all he would do was worry.

  At length Marcel got to his feet and let himself back into the house. There he found pen and paper and sitting down at the dining room table he wrote two notes – one to his parents and one to Hélène.

  To his parents he explained that he had survived the battle of Sedan, but since then he had left the army.

  Right or wrong, I have thrown in my lot with the National Guard. I know you’ll find that very difficult to understand, but I couldn’t fight any more for an emperor who cut and ran, leaving his soldiers to the mercy of the enemy and an army that squandered its men’s lives so recklessly. So, Georges and I have found ourselves on opposite sides in this conflict, but we have remained brothers and have done all we can to find and take care of Hélène. I have been using the stables as a place to live, and apologise to Pierre for using all his things.

  I am about to go back to my duty as a National Guard and man the barricades. I know, thank God, that I shall not be shooting at my own brother as he is safely with Dr Simon. I am extremely unlikely to survive the next few days, and if I do it will be as a prisoner, a deserter and a Communard. I expect no mercy, for I’m sure none will be given. The battle has been too long and too bloody. But I ask you to pray for me and remember me fondly, for whatever else I am, I am your loving son, Marcel.

  His note to Hélène was much shorter.

  Dearest, bravest Hélène.

  I probably won’t see you again, but if you get back to the stable and find this letter, go to Dr Simon’s house where you’ll find Georges, laid up with a broken leg. I don’t know where you are now, but have to trust young Jeannot to take care of you as I no longer can. I can promise you that Gaston Durand will never, ever, trouble you again.

  Don’t think badly of me for fighting on the ‘wrong’ side, just remember how proud I am to call you my sister.

  With my love, Marcel.

  He left the letter for his parents on the hall stand where the servants always left the post and took the note to Hélène out to the stables. If she came back that’s where she would look for him and he left it propped up on a straw bale. Then he took a last look round his childhood home before going back into the city to find his unit once more.

  Most of the fighting was now concentrated further east. Passy was no longer under threat as the government army continued its steady progress through the city. There were short, intense battles as they came up against the hastily erected barricades. Rattling rifle fire poured into the insubstantial barriers, eventually killing almost all who tried to defend them, before the invading troops swept through and on to the next one. The government troops suffered losses too, but they were nothing as compared with the Communards who, though determined to fight to the last man, were gradually driven from behind the barricades.

  Marcel and his unit defended and fell back, defended and fell back, each time losing more men, weakening their strength but not their resolve. Marcel had no illusions, he knew he was going to die, but he was determined to take as many of the enemy with him as possible. When their officer was killed, it was Marcel who took command and led his unit in retreat to survive and fight again.

  It was two days later that he and his men made one final stand at Montparnasse station. Ensconced in the station buildings, they held off the attacking soldiers until, their ammunition almost exhausted, Marcel gave orders for them to fall back.

  ‘Every man for himself,’ he bellowed as, hidden inside a newspaper stand, he raked the station with steady fire, keeping the incoming troops at bay while his men made their escape behind him.

  He knew his own ammunition would run out before long, and once he knew his men were clear, he used it more sparingly. There would be no escape for him, but he continued to fire at any soldier unwise enough to emerge from cover, to risk a dash towards his hideout.

  At last his rifle fell silent and the attacking troops began a stealthy advance. When it was clear that they were in no further danger from the hidden sniper, several of them rushed to the newsstand, guns at the ready. They found Marcel, sitting on a stool inside the kiosk, his empty rifle across his knees, his hands in the air and an insouciant grin on his face.

  It was the grin that did it. Behind them lay the bodies of their comrades, the soldiers Marcel had been picking off individually as they broke cover. The first man stared in at him, his rifle pointing menacingly at his chest, hesitating before taking the life of a man with his hands in the air in cold blood. The second man had no such qualms. He aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. At such close quarters Marcel was flung backwards, his head exploding, brains and blood and bone sprayed all over the confined space of the newsstand.

  As the sound of the shot died away there was a moment’s silence, then on a command, the soldiers turned, leaving Marcel’s body, just another damned Communard, a bloodied heap on the floor.

  28

  Jeannot and his mates lay low for that night and the next day. The dangers of the street far outweighed the need for food, but after a second night spent in the safety of their cellar, the boys emerged into the daylight. The sounds of the battle continued, but were more distant now. The battle had passed them by.

  ‘I’m off,’ Jeannot said when he’d slaked his thirst at one of the public fountains. ‘Got to find something to eat.’

  ‘Share and share alike,’ Monkey reminded him. ‘Meet back here with anything you’ve found.’

  The boys disappeared in three different directions to see what they could scrounge in the way of food… or anything else.

  Jeannot decided his best chance of something to eat was at Tante Edith’s, and he headed back towards the Bergers’ basement. This time he was even mo
re careful than before, taking care to steer clear of any main thoroughfares, but as he zigzagged through narrow side streets and alleyways, he could see the destroyed barricades, many of them with bodies still lying where they had fallen; women and children amongst them, all dying in answer to the Commune’s call to arms. He saw the body of a boy about his own age, lying on his back, his face to the sky, his eyes already missing; empty sockets left by the crows. Jeannot shuddered as he realised that if he hadn’t escaped from the working party, he too could be lying dead in the street.

  It was as he looked at the scattered bodies that an idea came to him. He looked round but there was no one else in sight. With slight reluctance, he crept towards the body of a man in workman’s clothes that lay like a discarded rag doll across the top of the barricade; not a soldier, but a man of the people. Jeannot kneeled down and slipped his hand into the man’s pocket. When he withdrew it again, he was clutching two francs. Riches!