‘Look at them,’ Sebastien said sharply. He indicated where Berenice had slumped into a chair. ‘Do you think they’d come to us if they had anywhere else to go? Then they get a welcome like yours. Shame on you. They’re staying, and if you don’t like it you can find another husband.’
Marthe turned without a word. Her feet could be heard clomping up the stairs.
‘She’s just crotchety,’ Sebastien said. ‘You woke her from her beauty sleep. She’ll be all right in the morning.’
In fact, we stayed six weeks, until January 1943. Sebastien rallied more friends from the Resistance and got a doctor to take out the bullet and stitch us up. We couldn’t go out and we knew how much it cost them to feed us and supply us with new clothes and shoes. But Marthe was a proficient seamstress, and she was able to alter a skirt and jersey to fit Berenice and let down one of Sebastien’s old coats to fit me. We were both thinner, both haggard with the lack of proper food and the worry. The clothes Marthe supplied were dowdy and unremarkable.
‘Better this way,’ she said. ‘Safer not to be pretty or fashionable.’
Berenice sighed, and said, ‘So now I am no longer a Parisienne.’
How had I never realised that Sebastien and Henri were part of the network? I suppose, because they were old, I’d overlooked them. But old men were less likely to be conscripted to work camps, and Sebastien had contacts who supplied us with new papers to travel out of the occupied zone into Vichy France. Sebastien told Berenice that Pierre, who I knew as Antoine, was in Marseille already and had a safe house where we could go.
‘It would be better to get out of France,’ I said. ‘We could try for Geneva, neutral territory. There’s a chance they’ll give us refugee status.’
Berenice looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. ‘I’m going to Marseille. If you want to go to Switzerland, then that’s your choice. But I’m not going to run away and sit on some border doing nothing. Not when my son’s still in France.’
‘But why jump from a frying pan into a fire? Pétain’s in the pocket of the Nazis. It will be just the same there as here in Paris. Wouldn’t you rather wake up with food on the table and the feeling nobody will shoot you in the back?’
‘I’d rather be in France. The Swiss are two steps away from Nazism anyway.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’ve said I’m not going to Switzerland. If you don’t want to come to Marseille, I can go alone.’
Sebastien, who had been listening to this conversation, stood up from his chair, his arms outstretched. ‘Now, now. Stop this foolish argument. The country’s divided enough without you two adding to it. Sleep on it, both of you.’
I couldn’t sleep that night. If I went to Switzerland, I might be able to get word to Céline, and I’d be out of this damned mess altogether. The thought of it beckoned me, like a sort of paradise. Yet Berenice had trusted me; she’d been my only friend since I arrived in France. It was her Resistance contacts that had sewed up my shoulder and risked discovery and death for me. Surely I owed them something? And I hated the idea of Berenice travelling alone with nobody to watch her back. Just the thought of abandoning her filled me with guilt.
Finally, I came up with a compromise. I’d go with her to Marseille, just until she made contact with Antoine, then I’d leave as soon as I could and try to make it across country to Switzerland. She didn’t thank me when I told her. Even this she saw as a desertion of duty.
‘You have no snow skills,’ she said. ‘Going that way will kill you.’
‘I have to be somewhere where I can breathe,’ I said stubbornly. Perhaps in time, when this whole miserable war was over, Céline could join me in Switzerland. As a deserter and a traitor, I could never go back to Germany, and it festered like a raw wound that I might never be able to look at my parents’ faces again.
I missed them with a visceral ache. I had thought I was German, that Germany represented a certain sort of righteous, upstanding goodness; an identity I took pride in. Now I realised that a patriotic identity was a kind of trap that shut you off from other people.
The Gestapo, my own countrymen, were searching for us; that much we heard. We had to move twice whilst they conducted house-to-house searches. They had issued photographs, and because of this we had both grown our hair longer and I had grown a moustache. Berenice’s face was almost back to normal, and Marthe had supplied her with powder and lipstick and a low-brimmed hat to help disguise the scars and the bruising.
Berenice was anxious to go to Antoine, but we knew we could only cross the Demarcation line if we had an identity card, an Ausweis. These could only be obtained from the German occupation authorities after stringent identity checks, so we knew we’d have to cross the border off the road. We’d travel to Dijon by train, and after that we’d be escorted by various Resistance contacts until we reached Marseille, the only functioning port in the unoccupied zone and crowded with refugees like us. Hard to believe, but the port was still trading and was the only gateway out of France.
The day we left the sky was heavy with unshed rain. Marthe hugged us both a little too tightly, something that made me think it was a final goodbye. Sebastien shook my hand up and down, and said, ‘I’ll miss our chess.’ It was the closest he could come to an admission of affection.
We walked along the street to the station as if treading on eggshells. Every noise made me wince. Berenice was supposed to be my mother, in her frumpy skirt and battered hat. I was the son, on my way back to a farm where we were working the land for the German Army. We’d memorised our new identities, reciting them over and over. Marie and Paul Corbet: mother and son. My third identity in as many years. It surprised me that this bag of bones could be known as so many things.
To be out on the street for as little time as possible, we’d left it until the last minute, given there could be a queue for the train. At the Gare de Lyon, SS men were checking everyone’s papers. I glanced at Berenice, who was white under her powder. Her fingers pulled obsessively at the rough brown scarf around her neck. The last time she’d seen men like this, they’d almost killed her. I prayed she would hold up.
We queued with the rest. All of us thin, hungry and scared. I clung to the suitcase that contained only an old blanket. Fear hung in the air like a miasma. At the turnstile, I pushed Berenice ahead. If there was trouble, I wanted her to have a chance to run.
I saw her brace herself and pull back her shoulders as she opened the flap of the identity card. The SS man, a portly man with skin scarred by acne, only glanced before he waved her through. She turned to catch my eye in triumph.
Don’t, I thought. Just keep walking.
The acne-cheeked man held out his hand, and I dropped my papers into his fleshy palm. He looked up at my face to check the picture, and I tried to remain impassive, though I could feel cold sweat breaking out round my collar.
‘Farm labourer?’ he asked me.
I smiled, pretending not to understand.
‘Farm? You work on farm?’
‘Oui.’
He nodded, folded my identity paper back together and passed it back. As he did so, he grabbed my hand. I saw him glance at it and immediately realised my mistake. My hand was not the calloused hand of a farm labourer.
‘I’ve been ill,’ I said in French, floundering, ‘many months.’ I coughed, releasing a cloud of white steam. ‘Bad lungs. Krank.’
He stepped away, as if I might be infectious, before waving me through. My blood racing in my veins, I walked as briskly as I could towards Berenice, who had paused near one of the iron columns. I sneaked a look back to the turnstile. Acne-face was pointing me out to two other men on his side of the gate. The men were in civilian clothes, suits and heavy overcoats, but they had the upright bearing of policemen. Gestapo.
‘Walk quickly,’ I said. ‘They’ve seen something suspicious about us.’
We hurried down the platform and the guard waved his flag and blew the whistle. The men were following us ra
pidly towards the train.
‘Get on,’ I said.
She leapt in through the doors. And I followed, just in time to slam the door as the train shunted off. I stuck my head out of the window. I could only see one Gestapo man. Where was the other?
‘Stay here a moment. One of them might be on the train,’ I said.
We waited, but nobody appeared.
‘I think we’re all right; let’s find a carriage,’ I said. The train was less busy than I expected. Paris had emptied over the past year, and the carriages were sparsely populated. I chose one where there was a down-at-heel old woman cradling a shopping basket on her knee. Next to her feet, two cloth bags bulged with what looked like old clothes and shoes.
The train was speeding now with bursts of steam and a clickety-clack. I gave Berenice a reassuring look and saw her shoulders drop. Had we lost them? Once out of the station, rain streaked the windows and the train wound through bare countryside, past empty fields and skeletal trees. The compartment was icy cold; we hugged our hands under our arms.
At Sens station, a station with no shelter, the train shuddered to a halt and a few more damp and bedraggled passengers got on. A man in an overcoat climbed into our compartment and sat down. He had nothing with him, no newspaper, no briefcase, no luggage of any description. The woman with the basket ignored him and continued to gaze out of the window.
I caught Berenice’s eye.
She raised an eyebrow but I daren’t tell her what was on my mind. The man couldn’t have got on at Sens because his overcoat was still dry. He must have got on at Paris and only now moved into our compartment. But why?
I continued to stare out of the window, aware that something was very wrong, and probably that something was us. Was this one of the Gestapo men from the Gare de Lyon, or was I mistaken? Perhaps he was just an ordinary French businessman visiting the city.
As the train cut through the landscape, my eyes kept flicking to him. He barely moved. He didn’t light a cigarette or try to sleep. He kept his eyes open, occasionally checking his wristwatch or glancing out of the open compartment door.
How far to Auxerre? We’d have to run for it. If they had suspicions about us, there’d probably be Gestapo at the other end. He was nearest the door. If he was armed, we’d be in trouble.
Just before Auxerre, I turned to him and spoke in French. ‘What a terrible day. Should have brought my umbrella. Is it this bad in Dijon?’
The man didn’t answer, but Berenice replied, ‘Let’s hope not.’
The train was slowing. The woman with the basket stood up.
‘Your stop?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, grasping one of the cloth bundles.
‘Maman will help you,’ I said.
Berenice shot me a look but stood up and helped the old woman towards the door. In one swift movement I grabbed the other bag and leapt out of the compartment, slamming the door shut. Seizing Berenice by the arm I turned and ran down the train, throwing the bag into the narrow corridor behind me.
Shutting the door gave us precious seconds.
A shot. The man in the overcoat was forcing his way past the old woman’s bags.
Opposite the next compartment, I hauled open the door window, leaned out and twisted the handle.
The door swung open. Though we’d slowed, to me the ground was still flying past at a terrifying speed.
‘I can’t,’ Berenice said as I pushed her to the edge.
‘You must.’
The man had scrambled over the bags and was trying to keep his footing as the train lurched around a corner. A connecting door to the compartment opened and a uniformed ticket inspector appeared. ‘What’s going on? What was that noise?’
Our pursuer paused, gun held before him.
The guard didn’t seem to see the gun. ‘Shut that door!’ he shouted at us. ‘It’s forbidden to open the doors until we reach a station.’
Then he turned to look again. ‘Quest-ce que —’
‘Get out of my way,’ the man said, the gun pointing at his chest.
The guard slipped back behind the compartment door.
Berenice needed no more encouragement — she leapt. It took me so much by surprise that it was a good two seconds before I followed her. My bad shoulder hit the ground with a crack, but I rolled free just in time to see our man hovering by the flapping door. He hung half out of the door, pointed his gun and fired, but the shot went wide.
Just at that moment, the train lurched around a corner and the man lost his footing. He tried to cling to the door, but that last desperate grab made him fall awkwardly onto the track. His screams were drowned by the noise of the train. I closed my eyes as he disappeared underneath it.
I sat up, panting.
Berenice limped towards me. ‘Did he jump?’ she asked, looking wildly around.
‘He fell under the train.’
‘My God. Is he alive?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to go and look. Wait there.’
‘Twisted my damn knee,’ she said.
I walked warily towards the tracks. There was no movement from the man on the rails. I could see blood and bone.
A few moments later, I was back with Berenice. ‘He’s dead,’ I said. ‘But I got this.’ I passed her the Gestapo tag I’d taken from around his neck.
She examined the brass eagle and swastika on one side and the lettering with ‘Geheime Staatspolizei’ on the reverse. ‘No papers?’
‘No. I searched him thoroughly.’ I swallowed. It had been a horrible job. ‘I guess he just wasn’t expecting to travel.’
She passed the Gestapo tag back. ‘I never figured you’d be one for souvenirs.’
I let her comment pass. ‘Let’s go. You can lean on me.’ I put my arm under her shoulder.
‘Did you find his gun?’
‘No, it could be anywhere. Didn’t want to waste time looking.’
‘I used to like hiking,’ she said, ‘when I was younger. How far to our contact near the Demarcation line?’
‘Don’t know. Thirty kilometres?’
‘Merde. It’s going to be a long night.’
Crossing France with no map, in the pitch-black, and keeping a wary eye for Allied bombers or German troops wasn’t easy, especially as Berenice was obviously in pain. She limped on beside me, never complaining. Several times we stopped, unable to fathom where we were, but by dawn we were soaked to the skin and shivering. I needed her just as much as she needed me. Without her, my faith in getting out of France alive would have probably deserted me.
Our contact was an aristocratic Englishman called Reginald Huntingdon, complete with a prim moustache and a burgundy silk smoking jacket, like an escapee from an Oscar Wilde play. Berenice’s expression at the sight of him made me want to laugh. The house, with a fairy-tale tower and big arched door was a stately pile that you might call a small chateau.
Reginald seemed unsurprised at our bedraggled appearance and showed us to an enormous bathroom with gurgling pipework and an antiquated-looking bathtub. ‘Now, old chaps, get yourself hot baths, and then I’ll feed you. You must be off the premises by nine thirty at the latest though, as M’sieur Petit, the head of the Dijon Feldgendarmerie, and his SS pals are coming for a breakfast meeting.’
I swallowed my resentment that if you had enough money you seemed to belong to some sort of club that transcended the war. We bathed and stripped to our underwear, and then, draped in huge towels, we set our clothes to dry in front of his enormous kitchen range. We were waited on by an old-fashioned English butler, Harris, who was delighted that I could speak English.
Over eggs and bread, I asked him if he knew anything about the occupation of Jersey.
‘Sorry, sir, I’m afraid not. Only the same as here; Jews have been removed and anyone English deported to Germany.’
‘What about everyone else?’
‘Like here, I suppose. Mr Huntingdon does what he can. He’ll help Allied airmen, give them a safe place and so on. But
we have to pay lip service to the Boche or they’ll requisition the house. Fortunately, Mr Huntingdon speaks good German, and he has a full wine cellar, so it smooths the way. They use him in their meetings to translate for M’sieur Petit.’
Another whose knowledge of the language had placed him on a knife-edge. We were interrupted by the sound of cars arriving outside.
The butler went to peer from the window. ‘They’re early.’
‘Is there a back way out?’
‘Not without risk. They always station a man outside the back to deter people from coming in. But you’ll be quite safe in the bedrooms upstairs. Follow me, please.’
We swiped our clothes from the clothes horse before the range and followed his upright figure up the narrow servant stairs. Quite unhurried, he led us across a carpeted landing and into a large bedroom. ‘I’d lock the door if I were you, sir.’ He put a hand to his lips and whispered, ‘Quiet as mice.’
Berenice was dressing, but I padded over to the window and, keeping well behind the curtain, peered out.
There were three cars. The one with a miniature Nazi flag fluttering from the front had obviously housed the black-clad SS officers. The second was a French Citroën covered in dust and scrapes. From the third, a large man in a Wehrmacht uniform was just climbing out, his shiny boots and flapping cavalry trousers emerging first. Something about the way he stood and stretched his back arrested me. I watched as he crossed the yard and gave the obligatory ‘Heil Hitler’. He rubbed his nose with a knuckle and it reminded me of Schulz. I stared a bit longer.
‘Come away,’ hissed Berenice. ‘They’ll see you.’
‘A moment more.’ By now I was certain it was Schulz, though heavier and with a bristling air of authority. Well, who would have thought it? He’d risen in the ranks, stripes on his shoulder and a peaked cap. These men were easy with each other, jovial. They greeted Reginald with claps on the back and smiles.
Schulz would know me if he saw me. I gnawed on a fingernail, wondering whether to tell Berenice. I saw her suddenly in a way I hadn’t before, the toll that all this was taking on her. The creases around her eyes, her hollow cheeks. She looked sixty, not forty-five.
The Occupation Page 23