by Fiona Valpy
I tuck my duster into my bucket of cleaning things and hurry back to find Sara in the kitchen. She’s just prepared our morning coffee and is setting a cafetière and mugs out on the kitchen table. Karen joins us, setting down her bucket, and Jean-Marc wanders in from the garden. He wipes his feet on the mat by the door and then washes his hands at the sink before pulling up a chair in the space beside mine, removing the cap he wears outside and setting it on the table beside him. I pass him a mug of coffee and he smiles his thanks.
As I pour milk into my cup, I ask Sara about Mireille and she nods as she passes round a plate of biscuits. ‘Mireille played her own, very active role back in Paris. The apartment above the atelier where she worked, sewing couture for those who could still afford it – and there were still all sorts who could, even during the war years – was used as a safe house. Mireille was a passeuse – one of a group of people who helped others escape. Some probably would have been sent through this way from there, moving from one safe house to the next along secret routes that led to the Pyrenees and then through Spain to Portugal. From Lisbon, it was possible to get a passage to America and to safety. Oh yes . . .’ She grins at me. ‘Mireille played her part, alright. But that’s probably another story in its own right.’
Karen downs the last of her coffee and stands up, brushing a few biscuit crumbs from her hands, ready to get back to work.
‘So, Sara,’ she says. ‘When are you going to take Abi to meet them?’
My jaw drops and my coffee cup is frozen in mid-air as I realise what she’s just said. Until very recently, Eliane’s story has felt like ancient history and I’d assumed that the Martin sisters would be dead by now, if they’d managed to survive the war.
‘Eliane’s alive?’ I ask. ‘Mireille too?’
Sara nods. ‘Yup. They’re both well into their nineties now – in fact, I reckon Mireille must be turning a hundred next year. And Eliane can’t be far behind; she’s only a couple of years younger.’
‘And Yves?’ I ask, eagerly.
Sara shakes her head. ‘I’m afraid not. Yves had a stroke a few years back and he lived for only a few months after that. But his sisters are still going strong. If you like, I’ll see if we can arrange to go over and have tea with them soon.’
I beam. ‘I’d love that!’
Sara and Karen leave to resume their duties and Jean-Marc gets to his feet, settling his cap back on his head. Then he looks at me and hesitates, as if plucking up the courage to say something. I meet his gaze, raising my eyebrows questioningly.
‘You know, Abi, you look completely different when you smile,’ he observes shyly. ‘You really should do it more often.’
Eliane: 1943
It was the eve of Toussaint and overnight the first frost of autumn had encrusted every twig, every seed head and every blade of grass in a powdering of silver. But now the late-October sunshine was starting to perform its magical disappearing act, drawing the mist from the river and erasing the sparkling chill of the frost, as it cast its spell across the dark land.
Eliane went to open up the chicken shed, accompanied by Blanche, who loved to watch the rooster strut out, stretching his wings with his air of pompous self-importance and announcing that the day could now begin. Then, in a flurry of feathers and cacophonous clucking, the hens tumbled out after him, immediately beginning to scratch in the dust for insects.
Eliane held the basket as Blanche searched the straw-lined nesting boxes in the shed for eggs. The supply was already dwindling noticeably with the change of seasons, and the hens were scrawny these days, having to survive on what they could scavenge in the grass along the riverbank now that there was no longer the plentiful supply of grain that they’d been accustomed to before the war. Their feathers were scrappy and dull and they bickered irritably over the smallest ants and grubs, trying to snatch them from their neighbours and make off with them. Eliane sighed and thought, Just like people. It was easier to be neighbourly when food was plentiful and you were plump and contented; these days it was a case of merely surviving and that seemed to bring out the worst, whether you were a chicken or a human being. By and large, the villagers of Coulliac had stuck together. But, as the Gestapo and the Milice tightened their grip in an attempt to control the increasingly frequent acts of sabotage by the maquisards, accusations and denunciations were becoming more commonplace. Under the sustained stresses of the war, the bonds of the community were beginning to fracture.
Once the sun had warmed the hives enough for her bees to venture forth, they still worked on indefatigably searching for nectar in the scrubby wild thyme and the last of the clover. They, alone, seemed to remain untouched by the stranglehold of the war.
‘Here, Eyann. One, two, three, four.’ Blanche showed off her newly acquired counting skills as she took each egg from the hammock of her apron and carefully placed them in the basket.
‘Well done, Blanche, that’s perfect. One egg for Papa, one for Maman, one for Eliane and – oh, who is the last one for?’
‘For me!’ Blanche giggled and clapped her hands.
‘Of course it’s for you, silly me.’ Eliane gathered the little girl into a hug and kissed her dark curls. ‘And now, shall we go and look for some wild mushrooms too? If we can find a big, fat, juicy cèpe then Maman can make a delicious omelette for Princess Blanche’s lunch today.’
They were walking back along the narrow path by the riverbank, Eliane holding Blanche’s hand to make sure she didn’t stray too close to the barbed wire as she danced beside her, when they caught sight of the black car parked outside the door of the mill house.
‘Ouch! Eyann, too tight!’ Blanche objected as Eliane involuntarily gripped her hand.
‘Sorry, Blanche.’ She relaxed her hold a little, although a fear that wouldn’t let go was gripping her own stomach like a vice.
As they approached the house, the pair of Gestapo officers stepped out of the kitchen, having clearly been watching for their return.
‘Mademoiselle Martin.’ The smaller of the two men smiled as he greeted her, but his eyes were as cold and weasel-like to her as ever. ‘How pleasant it is to see you again.’
‘Messieurs.’ Eliane kept her tone neutral, trying not to let her voice shake.
‘We have a task for you, mademoiselle. You will accompany us in the car, please.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Eliane nodded, unable to speak as Lisette and Gustave appeared in the doorway. They are safe, at least, she thought. She handed her basket to her mother and ushered Blanche towards Gustave, who was holding his arms out to her.
The larger of the two officers, whose neck overflowed the collar of his shirt and hung in a fleshy fold over the knot of his black tie, said something in German to his colleague, who smiled his cold smile again and nodded.
‘Non. Bring the little girl, too.’
Eliane froze, horrified. ‘But, monsieur, she is only four years old. Please, whatever the task is I will do it for you, but let her stay here with my parents.’
The man shook his head. ‘She will be of use as well.’
Lisette began to weep and, for a moment, Eliane thought Gustave might leap forward and attack the officers. She stretched out a hand to stop him and turned to address the man.
‘In that case, please at least tell us what the task is. A small child needs to be cared for properly. I have to know . . . Does she need her coat? Can she have something to eat before we go? When will we be coming back?’
The weasel laughed. ‘You are brave, mademoiselle. I like that about you. Very well. As you are probably aware, the so-called Resistance has been carrying out many acts of sabotage of late, in a futile attempt to prevent the authorities from undertaking duties essential to the war effort. This evening, a train carrying vital supplies will pass through the region on its way to Bordeaux. We are collecting together some “volunteers” to ensure that this train makes it safely to its destination. You and your little sister, along with a few others, will travel on
an open car at the front of the train so that you will be plainly visible to anyone who might be considering trying to stop it. So yes,’ he laughed, ‘perhaps a coat might be a good idea. After all, the nights are getting a little chilly now.’
Eliane stared at him, aghast. ‘Please, monsieur, don’t put Blanche through such an ordeal. She’s just a little girl.’
His lips compressed into a thin line and anger flickered across his face. ‘And that is precisely why she is of use to us. Perhaps those criminals will think twice about murdering a child. We’re sick and tired of their interference and have already lost more than enough men and supplies thanks to their acts of treachery. Get her coat. Your own as well.’ And then he smiled his cruel smile again and added, as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and put on that red headscarf that you’re so fond of, Mademoiselle Martin. They’ll be sure to recognise you in that.’
As Eliane scrambled to get their coats, her mother hastily made up a greaseproof-paper parcel of chestnut bread and honey, which she tucked it into Eliane’s pocket as she embraced her at the door. ‘Keep your strength up, ma fille,’ she whispered. ‘Courage.’
Gustave didn’t care whether anyone saw him as he drove the truck up to the tiny cottage where the count stayed. He hammered on the door, but there was no reply. Desperately, Gustave glanced towards the chapel. He would be putting everything at risk if he was seen over there: if anyone was watching him then he didn’t want to draw them towards the hidden radio transceiver. If it was discovered, it would be an immediate death sentence for both him and the count. But he had to get word, somehow, to the network to cancel tonight’s operation. Eliane . . . And Blanche . . . He couldn’t bear to think about it.
He pounded on the cottage door again and finally, to his immense relief, he heard the count’s shuffling footsteps making their way down the narrow passageway, accompanied by the tap of his stick on the floorboards. Gustave almost fell across the threshold when the door opened, and the count put out a steadying hand.
‘Woah there, Gustave. What is it? Calm yourself and come and tell me.’
Briefly, Gustave explained and the count listened, a frown creasing his brow as he nodded.
‘There is no question. The operation must be stopped. Don’t worry, Eliane and Blanche will be safe – and whatever other women and children they’ve rounded up. I’ll get word to Jacques. He’ll be able to stop them.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ Tears of relief filled Gustave’s eyes. ‘If anything happened to them . . . If Yves himself were responsible for their deaths . . . How could he live with that? How could any of us?’
‘Wait here. I’ll get the message through and be back soon.’
Gustave wiped his eyes and blew his nose on his spotted handkerchief as he watched from the window of the tiny cottage as Monsieur le Comte limped across the courtyard to the chapel. He paused at the door, fumbling in his pocket for the key as if he were in no great hurry. And then he disappeared inside, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him.
After what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been about half an hour at most, the count re-emerged, carefully locking the door again, and shuffled back to the cottage.
He nodded at Gustave, who had leaped to his feet. ‘Jacques has got the message. He understands the full horror of the situation. But he has no transport – the others have already set off to reach the intercept point and set everything up before it gets dark. He says can you bring your truck and meet him in the usual place? You’ll need to go right now.’
Gustave took the count’s hand in both of his and kissed it. ‘I can’t thank you enough, monsieur. You are saving my family.’
‘Go now,’ the Comte de Bellevue replied with more urgency. ‘And God be with you.’ As he watched Gustave drive away, he sent a prayer heavenwards, that the spirits of all their forebears who would be about on that Toussaint eve might conspire to protect all innocents from the evil that was going to be abroad that night. ‘And please let there be no roadblocks in the way, either,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Every second is going to count.’
The black car pulled up in front of the mairie in Coulliac behind a canvas-covered army truck. The place was eerily deserted, apart from a huddled group of people who stood on the steps of the mairie between two German guards. In the days before the war, at this time on the eve of la Toussaint, the shops would usually have been bustling with shoppers buying provisions for tomorrow’s extended family lunch – choice cuts of meat, fresh oysters from Arcachon, and exquisitely crafted pâtisseries from the bakery. But such delicacies only existed as distant memories, and the shops were empty of both provisions and customers. Even so, ordinarily there would have been a few people about, queuing in the hope of a scrap of something to break the monotony of their near-starvation diet: a bit of rabbit, perhaps, or a small slice of fatty pork to flavour tomorrow’s soup. But, at the appearance of the army truck and the sight of yet more people being rounded up, the inhabitants of Coulliac had melted away, taking refuge behind their shutters and their lace curtains, barricaded in by their fear of being selected to join the little group on the steps of the mairie.
The wind was picking up, and it broke the silence as it swirled around the square, scattering drops of water from the fountain on to the cobbles and blowing the dust against the blank faces of the villagers’ closed doors.
The Gestapo officers gestured to Eliane and Blanche to get out and join the group in front of the mairie. Among the shabby and threadbare clothes that they all wore, Eliane’s bright headscarf stood out like a beacon.
The soldiers mounting guard moved the group towards the truck. They dropped the tailgate and lifted the children in first, leaving the adults to scramble up as best they could. Eliane recognised the two little boys who’d offered her the fish in exchange for a jar of honey for their mother’s birthday. A thin, careworn woman who seemed to be the boys’ mother was there, too, as well as the baker and his wife, Monsieur and Madame Fournier. Monsieur Fournier was so crippled by his arthritis these days that it took the efforts of both of the guards to heave him on to the back of the lorry.
No one spoke as they sat on the slatted wooden benches that ran along each side of the truck, but Eliane reached for Blanche and held her tight on her lap before smiling reassuringly at the two boys.
The guards tied the canvas in place over the back of the truck, shutting them in, and then the engine turned over and they pulled away.
Under cover of the sound of the vehicle, Eliane spoke to the children, keeping her voice as calm and cheerful as she could.
‘Does anyone know where we’re going? No? Well, I can tell you, we’ve been chosen to go on a big adventure. We’re going to travel on a train, but on a special car right at the front.’
‘In front of the engine, even?’ asked the elder of the two brothers.
She nodded. ‘In front of the engine. It will be cold and noisy, I’m sure, but exciting too because most people don’t ever get the opportunity to travel on that special car. It won’t be scary, because all of us grown-ups will be there with you.’ She glanced around at the rest of the group, whose faces were pale with fear in the gloom, and smiled at them, encouraging them to follow her lead.
Madame Fournier, who sat holding her husband’s hand, took her cue from Eliane. ‘That’s right, we’ll stick together. It’ll be a bit like going on a ride at the funfair – or like the rollercoaster in Paris. Have you seen pictures of that?’
Monsieur Fournier chuckled. ‘Oh là-là, everyone in Coulliac will be so jealous that we got picked to go on this adventure and they didn’t!’
The others nodded, summoning up watery smiles for the sake of the children.
The younger of the two brothers reached for his mother’s hand. ‘Don’t be afraid, Maman. Even if the sound of the train is very loud, we’ll be there to look after you.’
The woman surreptitiously wiped away a tear with the frayed cuff of her coat and bent to kiss the top of his head. ‘With both my bra
ve sons by my side, how could I ever be scared?’
The truck jolted and swayed. Monsieur Fournier managed to ease the canvas cover apart just a little. ‘Looks like we’re on the road to Bergerac,’ he said.
Eventually, after slowing and swaying as it navigated the narrow streets of the town, the lorry stopped. The soldiers pulled back the canvas and let down the tailgate to allow the group to clamber down. One of the guards stood with them, his gun at the ready to prevent anyone trying to make a run for it, and the other disappeared into the station building.
A few local people hurried past, casting surreptitious glances at the huddled group of women, children and a stooped old man, wondering what crime – real, imagined or fabricated – had resulted in their being assembled in front of Bergerac station at this time on the eve of la Toussaint. Fear and guilt, in equal measure, accompanied the locals back to their homes, where, just as the people of Coulliac had done, they too bolted their doors and closed their shutters: here, they’d already witnessed too many deportations, too many people being herded like animals into trains of cattle cars, too much fear and despair.
The guards shepherded the group through the doorway and out on to the platform beyond. As they waited, the cold edge of the wind cut like a knife through their inadequate coats and jackets and they shivered with a mixture of chill and fear. Eliane took the paper-wrapped parcel of sandwiches from her pocket and shared them round, making sure everyone had a scrap or two.
‘Give my share to the children,’ Madame Fournier demurred.
Eliane shook her head, insisting. ‘Non, madame. Please eat. It’s little enough, but we are all going to need strength for this journey.’ She turned to the children, trying to distract them from the cold and the nervous anticipation that was now mounting as they stood waiting for the train. ‘Do any of you know how my bees made this honey for our sandwiches?’