by Jeanne Gask
‘It’s your father. I’ve always told you he’s a bit of a fixer.’
Nell then told them the whole story of her visits to the camp, how Tom had saved as much food as he could for them and of her difficulty in getting home. She told them about the porter and how she found that English cigarettes had made the best tips. She added, ‘I think he thought I was a spy, or at least a Resistance worker carrying heavy transmitting equipment!’ It amused them to think of their mother as a spy, or worse.
They went back to examining the tins, reading the labels out loud and translating for Jeanne.
‘What’s this?’ Jeanne held up a large round tin. ‘K.L.I.M.’
‘Klim,’ said Nell. ‘It’s American, dried milk.’
‘Dried milk? Whatever next? I didn’t know there was such a thing as dried milk. And this, what is it?’ Jeanne held up a squarish, brown waxed box.
‘Oh, that’s dried egg.’
The girls examined the box in turn, turning it over and reading the cooking instructions on the side. ‘Fancy! Dried egg! Who’d have ever thought it?’
Nell was well-off at last. She now had goods she could barter for whatever was most urgently needed, be it food or clothes.
Before stowing the cases under the bed, Nell poured the girls a cup of real English tea, with a little of Jeanne’s milk ration added. Then she sat down, put her feet up, closed her eyes and took a long, slow drag from one of the cigarettes. She had earned a good rest.
Jeanne jumped around the room, sniffing the air. ‘It smells different, it smells . . . it smells . . . She sought the right word. ‘It smells English!’ she said triumphantly.
Nell was to visit Tom again, in March, and this time she took Marie with her. The journey was just as bad as before, but didn’t seem so, as she now had someone to share it with.
Marie, as usual, charmed everyone, everywhere she went. As well as her beauty, there was an openness, a frankness about her in those days that made everyone who came into contact with her warm to her. There was also her prodigious sense of humour. No matter how hard, how difficult the situation, she always managed to turn it into a joke.
When she arrived at the internment camp wearing a fashionable bright-red schoolgirl hat, she caused a sensation. Tom was bursting with pride as he showed off his lovely daughter to his fellow prisoners and all the men wanted to be introduced to her. His friends said she just looked like Princess Elizabeth.
Back in Cambrai, Nell had left Irene and Jeanne with Protestant friends from the church, the Pochet family.
Monsieur Pochet had an electrical goods shop down the high street. He and his wife were from Alsace-Lorraine, a part of France bordering on Germany. They and their five children, four boys and a girl, blond and blue-eyed, could have been mistaken for Germans, especially Madame, who wore her long, fair hair plaited and wound around her head like a German hausfrau. They bore a great hatred of the Germans, as Alsace-Lorraine has a long history of being overrun by Germany and then retaken by France, time and time again.
When Nell approached Monsieur and Madame requesting that they look after Irene and Jeanne during her absence, they didn’t hesitate for a second. They argued that, since they already had five children to feed, two more would make little difference.
Irene and Jeanne paired off with the Pochet children closest to their own age: Irene with fifteen-year-old Jean and Jeanne with the younger ones, Yves, a little older, and Claude, a little younger than herself. They could well have come from the same family, their fair heads bending down over their homework around the big kitchen table.
Jeanne enjoyed her stay there. In the large, rambling flat above the shop, there was room to run or play hide-and-seek in the old cupboards and wardrobes and, what’s more, she always had someone to play with. Irene was quite boring these days; her nose was always in a book. She didn’t want to play any more and was becoming, as they say in France, Une jeune fille serieuse.
Jeanne always looked forward to mealtimes. Madame was an excellent cook and there was plenty of good food. Jeanne would have been quite happy if they had stayed at the Pochet’s forever.
14. Bombing Days
Irene was down in the kitchen chatting to Nell who was preparing the tea. Marie was late coming home from college. Jeanne was sitting at the large table doing her homework.
Or rather, Jeanne was supposed to be doing her maths homework but it was all so boring. She had absolutely no wish to delve into the complexities of logarithms. She didn’t understand them, and what’s more, she didn’t want to understand them.
She had written her name and the date, 27th April, l944, at the top of the page and underlined them. She sat and stared at the blank sheet, then looked round the room for inspiration. If only, she thought, if only something big, something important would happen, so that she wouldn’t have to do her maths homework. But it was no good wishing, she knew that she would hand in the blank page tomorrow, with just her name and the date at the top of the page, and it would be returned to her marked 0/10 as usual.
She started doodling on the page, signing her name and trying different ways of signing it. First JEANNE ELISABETH SARGINSON, which was her full name. But seeing it written out in full, she thought it looked like a bit of a mouthful, so she just signed JEANNE SARGINSON, which looked much better.
She warmed to her subject, creating extraordinary capital letters, first adding winding curlicues, then embellishing them with leaves and flowers and bunches of grapes . . . She sat back and admired her masterpiece. This was much more fun than boring old maths.
Then, she had a great idea. She turned her name round, spelling it backwards: ENNAEJ NOSNIGRAS. Well, she thought, that’s interesting . . . that’s really interesting. ENNAEJ NOSNIGRAS, the beautiful Lithuanian spy. Maybe she wouldn’t be a film star after all, but a spy, dressed in a long figure-moulding crepe gown (not a dress, but a gown), in pale grey or pale blue with a matching head-hugging cap embroidered all over with seed pearls. She didn’t know what seed pearls were but they sounded right. And she would carry a small pearl-handled revolver in a neat clutch bag, tucked under her arm —
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of planes overhead. Jeanne looked up. Then she went to the front door and opened it. Yes, there they were, gleaming in the sun. ‘Two . . . four . . . six . . .’ Whenever people saw planes up in the sky, they counted them. Everyone did. ‘Eight . . . ten . . . twelve . . .’
There was the most horrific ear-shattering sound, like a million planks of wood dropping from a great height. Terrified, Jeanne ran to the cellar door, yelling, ‘Mum . . . Mum!’ She never could turn the rusty old key, but this time fear gave her the strength to unlock the door. She fell down the cellars steps, sobbing, and shouting, ‘Mum . . . Mum!’ She had never been so frightened in her life. She curled up in the darkest, safest corner where the bombs wouldn’t get her, praying out loud, over and over again.
Irene and Nell tumbled down the cellar steps close behind, and found Jeanne crouched down, sobbing hysterically in the coal hole.
Irene said drily, ‘Shut up, Jeanne!’ They huddled together in the dark, hoping they were safe; that the bombs would not reach this part of town.
After a while, Nell said, ‘As soon as the first wave has gone over, we’ll run up to the public shelter. We’ll be safer there.’
Bombers came over in waves. The first wave of bombers dropped its load of bombs then turned towards home and there was a few minutes’ gap before the second wave dropped its bombs. And that’s when Nell and the two girls ran up the street to the top where the public shelter was housed in the local kindergarten.
Nell had grabbed hold of her handbag. It contained her papers. She thought that, should a bomb get her, her identity would be known to the people who dug her out. It seemed important to her.
At the kindergarten, they ran down one set of steps to the first cellar, then down another set of steps into the second cellar. They felt safe at last. A group of local people were already down
there and a few heads looked up as they arrived and nodded in recognition. Two old women, all in black, hats on, sat to one side with their rosary beads in hand, muttering their Hail Marys.
Jeanne sat quietly, huddled up to Nell, with her thumb in mouth. Irene sat on the other side of Nell, bolt upright and staring into the middle distance. They could hear the muffled crump-crump of the bombs as they fell, and wondered just what part of town was being attacked. Old dust and cobwebs fell down on them from the vaulted ceiling.
A man rushed in. ‘The college is burning!’
Jeanne howled, ‘My sister . . . my sister! She’s there! She’s in the college!’ She started crying and bawling out loud all over again. A few people muttered comforting words, but really they were far too busy with thoughts of their own safety to worry too much about her.
Nell’s face was set and white; her lips tight and thin.
When the all-clear sounded they walked home in silence, Jeanne holding her Mummy’s hand. Her tear-stained face was streaked with dust and filth.
They had no sooner arrived home than Marie turned up on her bike, eyes shining with excitement. ‘My goodness, that was tremendous. You should have been there!’
‘Marie!’ they all shouted. ‘Are you all right . . .? Isn’t the college burning?’
‘No, it’s the railway station behind it.’
‘Oh Marie!’ Nell said, and sat down, her legs too weak to hold her.
‘It was amazing,’ Marie went on. ‘When the sirens sounded, two of the boys grabbed hold of my hands and we ran across the yard to the shelter. There was shrapnel falling everywhere, all around us. Look, I’ve got a piece here!’ She showed the others the jagged piece of metal in her hand.
‘Oh Marie!’ Nell said again. She was in shock.
That evening, after they had heard the bombing of Cambrai mentioned on the radio news from London, Nell said, ‘Look, I’ve been thinking and I’ve made up my mind. It was enough of a shock with Marie and the college this afternoon. If the bombings have started here in northern France, it means things are hotting up. I think we’ll be safer in the country. I’m going to see Pere Cadier in the morning see if he can find us a safe place. It could turn nasty.’
‘But the Germans . . .?’
Nell went on, ‘I think it’s the beginning of the end for them, and what’s more, I think they know it too. They’ll soon be far too busy saving their own skins to worry about any silly rules and regulations.’
Pere Cadier was their new minister down at the Protestant church. He had appeared out of nowhere one fine day. At a meeting of the elders of the church, which Nell attended, he had told them that he was on the run from the Germans. His former ministry had been in the southeast of France where, sheltering and helping Resistance workers, he had come to the notice of the German authorities and had had to leave in a great hurry. He begged the members of the congregation for their help and support, to which they wholeheartedly agreed.
Nell went to see him the morning after the bombing. Was there on his books, she said, ‘someone in the country who would be willing to offer shelter to a family?’ He asked her to call again the next day.
That evening the whole population of the town, including Nell and the girls, strolled among the ruins of the station surveying the damage. They pointed out deep holes where familiar buildings had stood and bumped into acquaintances.
‘Who’d have thought it? You’d think we’d had enough trouble here in the First World War . . . What did they want to come and do that for? Do you think it was a trainload of ammunition they were after, or something?’ The people of Cambrai conjectured and wondered, asking one question on top of another and getting no answers.
As Nell and the girls passed a huge German fire engine, they came upon Emil winding up a mess of fire hoses. He looked at them, and they looked at him, and not a flicker of recognition passed between them.
‘Yes,’ Pere Cadier said to Nell the next morning. There was an address in the country. He didn’t know much about it, apart from that accommodation was being offered by some Protestant people and that it was six miles out in a large village called Rieux-en-Cambresis.
15. Rieux Days
As Nell packed a bag for each of them, her thoughts went back three-and-a-half years to the time when they had come from Marc-en-Bareuil. Was there no end to this madness? When and how was it all going to end? How she wished she was back in Calais, doing nothing more adventurous than spending the afternoon making jam with Clothilde and waiting for Tom’s cheery, ‘Hello Nell, I’m home!’ The only thing she was sure of is that she had promised Tom that she would get herself and the girls out of this wretched mess in one piece, and that is why they were leaving Cambrai. Having got this far she didn’t want them to perish in an air raid at the very last minute, just as the war was taking a turn for the better.
So now they were on their way again, not even knowing where they were going to sleep that night. What Nell didn’t know was that the bombings were a ‘softening’ operation in preparation for the D-day landings, just six weeks away.
Her thoughts were interrupted by three men: neighbours armed with large hammers. They had come, they said, to knock a hole in the cellar wall through to next door. If the bombings were to carry on, and people were trapped, they could crawl through the hole into next door’s cellar.
Jeanne followed them down and watched as they knocked their hole – about two feet square – and then, crouching down, she could see holes in all the cellars going right down the street.
Nell called her up from above and sent her to the baker’s to buy the biggest loaf in the shop. When she returned, the loaf was strapped to the luggage carrier of Marie’s bike. Two more bags were criss-crossed on the handlebars. They each had their own bag to carry and Nell also had her handbag with her ‘papers’ in it.
They set off in the late afternoon. As they walked out of the town, Jeanne thought how lovely it was to be in the country. They felt like naughty children breaking the rules, leaving without permission.
At ten to seven precisely, at exactly the same time as two days before, the bombers were back directly overhead. Marie shouted, ‘Quick, quick, in here!’ and they dived into the nearest shelter. It was a First World War British army cemetery. They lay down and hid amongst the neat white tombstones – hundreds of them – in beautiful symmetrical rows.
As the planes made their bombing run just above their heads, two bombs collided, exploding in mid-air and sending shrapnel falling all around. Jeanne screamed. She was terrified. She lay sobbing, huddled against a gravestone, right up against it as close as possible. Irene shouted from the shelter of her own tombstone, ‘Oh, shut up, Jeanne!’
They now knew what to expect. The first wave of bombers, having dropped their load, circled above the town. Then there was a lull of a few minutes, before the second wave grouped right above their heads and dropped their own bombs. They heard them whistling as they fell, right there just above them.
Jeanne was sobbing loudly. Irene shouted above the din, ‘Oh, do tell her to shut up, Mum!’
Then, after a couple of hours, the all-clear sounded far away in Cambrai. The air raid was over.
They stood up, and as they dusted themselves down found they had not been alone in the cemetery. It had been full of people sheltering among the tombstones. They smiled at each other sheepishly, exchanged a few words, and went on their way.
Marie picked up her bike from the spot where she had thrown it in the ditch and they carried on towards Rieux.
They weren’t the only ones on the road that evening. They encountered similar groups of people walking or cycling to friends and relatives, also seeking a safe place in the country.
A lorry laden with furniture sped past them and a voice called out, ‘Marie! Marie!’ It was her headmaster and his family. The college’s proximity to the railway station had proved too much for them.
Nell and the girls were very tired by the time they turned off the main road and walke
d into the village looking for Rue de la Gare. Exhausted, they knocked on the door of number thirteen. A large woman in her mid-thirties opened the door and they explained who they were and how Pere Cadier had sent them.
She exclaimed, ‘Pere Cadier must be losing his marbles! I was expecting a couple from Dunkirk!’ Then, seeing their crestfallen faces, said, ‘Oh well, you’d better come and see, but I warn you, it isn’t much. Come on, follow me, it’s next door.’
She led them to number fifteen and, opening the door, called, ‘It’s all right, Auntie, it’s only me!’ Unlocking the first door on the right, she said, ‘This is it.’
Nell’s heart sank. On the left of the room was a massive old-fashioned bed; in the middle, against the wall, a small cooking stove; and on the right, a washstand and bucket; in the window alcove was a table and four chairs. That was it. One room. One bed, for four of them. In comparison, the Cambrai ‘flat’ had been a palace.
Nell gulped, dismayed. She had no choice. ‘All right. We’ll take it,’ she said.
Nell found that things were not as bad as they had at first seemed. She was used to making the best of a bad job and soon got into a routine.
She did not have the facilities to warm water up, but luckily the summer was coming, and they could wash in cold water. As in Cambrai they took it in turns to have an all-over wash once a week, the slop-bucket doubling as a chamber pot. Nell carried it through to the garden every morning, and tipped it at the base of the old plum tree just outside the back door. She swore the plums it gave that summer were the most delicious she had ever tasted! Otherwise, they were allowed to use the earth closet next door, but didn’t like to intrude too much.
The old aunt lived in the back room of the ancient house. Her old frame was so wasted that she held a lamb bone under her right arm when she knitted, this acted as a prop for her knitting needle. Jeanne watched, fascinated, as the needles click-clicked, the lamb bone rising and falling in rhythm.