by Alex Gerlis
With that, he quickly followed his wife into the cottage and slammed the door behind them.
She hesitated on the doorstep, still holding the little girl’s hand. She could hear the door being bolted. She knocked on it two or three times, but there was no response.
She thought of trying to go around to the rear of the cottage, but she was losing sight of her group now. Sylvie was still holding her hand, glancing up at her anxiously. She knelt down to speak to the little girl.
‘Are you all right?’ She tried to sound reassuring. Sylvie nodded.
‘Do you want to come with me?’
The little girl nodded again and muttered ‘Yes.’
This is the last thing I need.
She thought of leaving her there, on the doorstep. They’ll have to take her back in. She paused. I need to decide quickly. Maybe as far as the town, there’ll be somewhere she can go there.
By the time they had walked down the path and started to follow the group, the shutters in the cottage had closed.
It was as they left the next village that they came across the Germans. They emerged from behind the trees one by one, with their grey uniforms, black boots and oddly shaped helmets, not saying a word. Slowly, they circled the group, which had come to a halt, too frightened to move. The German soldiers moved into position like pieces on a chessboard. They waved their machine guns to herd the group into the middle of the road.
She was terrified. They’re going to shoot us. The little girl clutched her hand.
She breathed in and out deeply. Remember the training they gave you, she told herself:
When you’re in a potentially dangerous situation, don’t try to be anonymous.
Never look away, or at the ground. Don’t avoid eye contact.
If you’re in a group or a crowd, avoid standing in the middle, which is where they’d expect you to hide.
If you fear you’re about to be found out, resist the temptation to own up. It’s a fair assumption that the person questioning you or searching you will miss the obvious.
She heard shouting from behind the trees and over the shoulder of the soldier nearest to her she spotted two officers emerging. One of them was speaking loudly in bad French.
‘We’re going to search you then you can move on. Are any of you carrying weapons?’
Everyone around her was shaking their head. She noticed Sylvie shook hers too.
He waited a while in case anyone changed their mind. ‘Are there any Jews in this group?’
There was silence. People glanced suspiciously at those stood around them. At the word ‘Jews’ the little girl’s hand tightened its grip on hers with a strength she could not have imagined. She looked down and saw Sylvie had her head bowed and appeared to be sobbing. She realised the extent of her predicament. If they caught her looking after a Jewish child, she would have no excuses.
‘My men will come and search you now. I’m sure you’ll all co-operate.’
Too late.
The soldiers spread the group out along the road and began searching people. Marcel was close and was searched before her. The soldier searching him gestured to him to remove his wristwatch. Marcel started to protest, until one of the officers walked over. He smiled, looked at the watch that had been passed to him, nodded approvingly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Along the line, members of the group were being relieved of possessions: watches, pieces of jewellery – even a bottle of cognac.
The soldier who came to search her appeared to be in his teens. His hands shook as he took her identity card. She noticed his lips moved silently as he tried to read what it said. One of the officers appeared behind him and took the card.
‘You’ve come a long way.’ He handed it back to her.
She nodded.
‘Is this your sister?’ He was staring intently at the little girl.
She gave the faintest of nods.
‘She’s your sister, then?’
She hesitated. She hadn’t said anything yet. She could do now. They wouldn’t harm a child. The little girl now placed her other hand around her wrist, stroking her forearm as she did so.
‘Yes. She’s my sister.’ She replied in German, speaking quietly and hoping no-one else in the group heard her. Trying to appear as relaxed as possible, she smiled sweetly at the officer who was probably in his mid-twenties, the same age as her. She threw her head back, allowing her long hair to settle over her shoulders.
If you’re an attractive woman – at that point the instructor had been looking directly at her, along with the rest of them – don’t hesitate to use your charms on men.
The officer raised his eyebrows approvingly and nodded.
‘And where did you learn to speak German?’
‘At school.’
‘A good school then. And does your sister have an identity card?’
It was too late. She should have realised this would happen. Does he suspect something? She doesn’t look anything like me. Her complexion is so much darker. She had lost the chance to tell them the truth.
‘She lost it.’
‘Where?’
‘In Amiens. A Gypsy stole it from her.’
The officer nodded knowingly. He understood. What do you expect? Gypsies. Don’t we warn people about them? Thieves. Almost as bad as the Jews. Almost.
He lowered himself down on his haunches so he was at eye level with the little girl.
‘And what’s your name?’
There was a pause. The little girl peered up at her for approval. She nodded and smiled.
Tell him.
‘Sylvie.’
‘Sylvie is a nice name. Sylvie what?’
‘Sylvie.’
‘What is your surname – your full name?’
‘Sylvie.’
‘So, your name is ‘Sylvie Sylvie?’ The officer was beginning to sound exasperated. Sylvie was whimpering.
‘I’m sorry, sir. She’s frightened. It’s the guns. She’s never seen any before.’
‘Well, she’d better get used to them, hadn’t she?’ The officer was standing up now. Not satisfied.
From the east there was a series of explosions followed by an exchange of rifle fire.
The officer hesitated. He wanted to continue with the interrogation, but the other officer was shouting out urgent instructions to the soldiers.
‘All right, move on,’ he said to her.
It was only when the soldiers disappeared back into the woods and the group moved on that she realised how petrified she was. Her heart was ramming against her ribs and cold sweat was running down her back. The little girl walked on obediently beside her, but she could feel and see her body trembling.
As the group walked slowly along the road, she realised she was stroking Sylvie’s hair, her trembling hand cupping the child’s cheeks, wiping away the tears with her thumb.
Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, she had surprised herself.
***
They had walked for another hour. Marcel dropped back at one stage and sidled up to her.
‘And where did she come from?’ He gestured at Sylvie, who was still clutching her hand.
‘The couple who gave us water and fruit outside their cottage. The last village but one. They made me take her.’
‘You realise…?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Aren’t you taking a bit of a risk?’
‘Aren’t we all?’
Marcel had spotted a forest ahead of them and said that the deeper they got into it, the safer they’d be. But, as she was beginning to realise was the case in the countryside, distances were hard to judge and the forest was not quite as near as it seemed. By the time they found a clearing, everyone was exhausted.
That night she found herself with Sylvie on the edge of the group, resting next to an old man and his wife. As the rest of the group slept the old man gave her his blanket, assuring her he wasn’t cold. Sylvie was curled up alongside her under the blanket
, fast asleep.
The old man had also given her the last of his water. He wasn’t thirsty, he assured her. The moonlight poked through the canopy of the forest, the tops of some of the trees swaying very gently despite the absence of any breeze. The old man moved closer to her and spoke quietly: he and his wife had lost both their sons at Verdun and had prayed they would never see another war. He had tried to lead a decent life. He went to church, he paid his taxes, he had never voted for the communists. He worked on the railways, but was now retired. They could not stand the thought of being in Paris when it was occupied, so now they were heading to the town where his wife’s sister lived, he explained. It was bound to be peaceful there.
‘You look so much like our daughter,’ he said, patting her affectionately on the wrist. ‘You have the same slim figure, the same beautiful long, dark hair, the same dark eyes. When my wife and I saw you for the first time yesterday – we both remarked on that!’
‘Where does your daughter live?’
The old man said nothing, but his eyes moistened as he held his hand over hers. The old man was kind, but there was something about him that unsettled her. As she lay down on the cold earth, a familiar yet unwelcome companion descended upon her. The memory. The old man, she realised, reminded her of her father. He too worked on the railways. The same dark eyes that couldn’t hide the suffering. The same awkwardness. The reason she was here now.
She’d tried so hard to forget her father, but now the dark memories were stirred, she knew she would be troubled for the rest of the night.
She slept in short, unsatisfactory bursts as she always did when her father came back to her. At one stage she woke with a start, aware she must have cried out in her sleep. She looked around and noticed the old man’s eyes, glinting in the moonlight, staring at her. When she awoke in the morning she felt stiff and cold. As the group moved off, she fell in with the old man and his wife, but the kindness of the previous night had gone and he ignored her.
***
‘Come closer.’
It was later that afternoon and the group had paused at the edge of the forest, through which they had been walking all day. The old man who was calling out to her was now slumped at the base of the tree and had aged ten years in the past ten minutes. His legs were twisted under him and his skin was as grey as the bark he was resting against. His wife knelt by his side, anxiously gripping his right arm with both hands. He held his other arm out towards her, fingers urgently beckoning her to him.
‘Come here,’ he called out. His voice was rasping and angry. The rest of the group were moving off, leaving just her and Sylvie with the old man and his wife.
She looked down the forest path, where the rest of the group was now disappearing beyond the sunbeams. They knew there was nothing they could do for the man and were anxious to try and reach the town before nightfall. She could just make out Marcel, his short walking stick waving high above his head to encourage them along.
‘Leave him,’ Marcel had said. ‘I warned everyone not to drink from the ponds. This water can be like a poison. He took the risk. We must move on.’
She hesitated. If she lost contact with the group she could be stranded in the forest, but she had made the mistake of stopping to help when the man collapsed and it would seem odd if she abandoned him now.
She knelt by his side. Around the tree was a carpet of bracken; green, brown and silver. His lips were turning blue and spittle flecked with blood was dribbling down the sides of his mouth. His eyes were heavily bloodshot and his breathing was painfully slow. He didn’t have long to go. She recognised the signs. She would soon be able to rejoin the group.
‘Closer.’ His voice was now little more than a harsh whisper. With a shaking hand he pulled her head towards his. His breath was hot and smelled foul.
‘I heard you last night,’ he said. She pulled back, a puzzled look on her face.
He nodded, pulling her back towards him, glancing at his wife as he did so, checking she could not hear. ‘I heard you cry out,’ he whispered. ‘I heard what you said.’
He waited to regain his breath, his whole body heaving as he did so. His reddened eyes blazed with fury.
‘This victory will be your greatest defeat.’
***
Later that afternoon she realised how soon you become inured to the sights and the smells of war. They had a tendency to creep up on you, allowing time for the mind to prepare itself for what it was about to experience. But not the sounds. The sounds of war may be no more shocking, but they had a tendency to arrive without warning, imposing themselves in the most brutal manner. You were never prepared for them.
So it was on that dusty afternoon at the end of May, where the Picardy countryside had begun to give hints of a nearby but unseen sea, and where a small group of French civilians desperately trying to flee the war found they had walked right into it.
It took a few seconds for her and most of the others in the column to realise that the cracking sound a hundred yards or so ahead of them had been a gunshot. Maybe it was the shock of the strange metallic noise that seemed to echo in every direction, more likely was the fact it was the first time most of them had ever heard a gun. In a split second, she reassembled in her mind what she had just seen and heard. Moments earlier, the tall figure of Marcel had been remonstrating with the German officer. She could barely make out what he was saying, although she did hear the word ‘civilians’ more than once, as he pointed in their direction with his walking stick. Then there was the cracking noise and now Marcel was on the ground, the dusty, light-grey surface of the road turning a dark colour beneath him.
A wave of fear rolled through the small group that had been held up beyond the makeshift German checkpoint where the shooting had taken place. I know the area, Marcel had told them. I can handle the Germans.
Apart from the woman with four children and three elderly couples, the group was mainly women on their own. All fools, she thought. All allowing themselves to be herded like cattle. All part of the reason why France had become what it was.
She knew she had made a terrible mistake. She could have headed in any direction, other than east. That would have been suicide. When she looked at where she had ended up now, she may as well have gone east. She realised now, of course, south would have been best. Due west would have been safe, too; not as safe as the south, but better. But to have come north was a disaster.
It wasn’t as if she had been following the crowds. Half of France had been on the move and each person seemed to be heading in a different direction. She had made up her mind when she left home that she would head north and it wasn’t in her nature to change her mind. She had tried it a few weeks ago and this was why she was in so much trouble now. It was crazy though. When she was a girl on the way to the coast for the only happy family holiday she could remember, they had passed through Abbeville. It had been an idyllic day, no more than a few hours respite on a long journey, but for some reason this was where she had decided to head.
The German officer walked over to where Marcel lay on the ground, the pistol still in his hand. With his boot he rolled the body over onto its back then nodded to two of his men. They picked a leg each and dragged the corpse to the ditch by the side of the road. A long red smear appeared where his body had been. The officer inspected his boot and wiped it clean on the grass.
One of the soldiers came over to the group and spoke to them slowly in French. They were to come forward one by one. They were to show their identity cards to the officer who had shot the man and, after they had been searched, they would be allowed to carry on into the town.
The light had not started to fade yet and beyond the checkpoint she could see the outskirts of the town quite clearly. Plumes of dark smoke hung over it, all remarkably straight and narrow, as if the town lay beneath a forest of pine trees.
She couldn’t risk the checkpoint. Not with this identity card. The first Germans they had encountered had not paid much attention to people’s
identities. They’d been more intent on finding what loot they could lay their hands on. This checkpoint seemed to be more thorough. She had known she would have to find another identity and assumed she would get the opportunity in the town. She had not counted on coming across the Germans so early, no-one had. The last news she had heard was that they had not yet reached Calais. That is what Marcel had told them and now his feet were sticking out of the ditch in front of them, his blood now turning black on the surface of the road.
She edged towards the rear of the column, looking around her as she did so. She spotted her opportunity. The soldiers were distracted by dealing with the mother and her four children, all of whom were crying. No-one was watching the group. She leaned over to Sylvie, who was still clutching her wrist, and whispered that she was going to the toilet in the field. She would be back in a minute. The little girl’s eyes filled with tears. Reluctantly, she reached in her pocket and took out the bar of chocolate. It was the last of the bars that had once filled her coat pockets and it was all she had left to eat. She pressed it into Sylvie’s palm, noticing it was soft and had begun to melt.
‘If you’re a good girl and keep very quiet, you can have all of this!’ She was trying hard to sound as gentle as possible. She looked around. No-one was looking at her. Towards the front of the column she saw the smartly dressed lady in her mid-thirties who’d told her she was a lawyer from Paris, heading for the family home in Normandy.
‘You see that nice lady there? The one with the smart brown coat? She’ll look after you. But don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.’
Still crouching down, she edged towards the ditch then through a narrow gap in the hedge. The corn was high in the field and not far away, as if expertly painted onto the landscape, was a large wood that seemed to taper as it spread towards the town. She waited for a moment. She was certain the Germans had not counted how many there were in their group, so hopefully they’d not realise one person had crept away. If they did come and look for her now, she was near enough to the hedge to be able to persuade them she was just relieving herself.