by John Wilcox
“Bien. No, they will not be back. I have heard that they are… what shall I say?… sweeping, yes, sweeping the area, because they know that there are two British airmen here somewhere and they are determined to find them. But they cannot afford the resources to repeat these searches and, anyway, they do not have the time. They must find you two before we spirit you away.”
“And when will that be?” In asking the question, Gladwin sensed Marie looking at de Vitrac with some anxiety.
The Frenchman shrugged. “As I have said, to some extent it depends upon your progress with the sprained ankle. But we also must prepare the way for you. The people who do all this, particularly those along the line to the south, must be alerted and they must make their arrangements. This all takes time. So, as I said before, perhaps ten days – if you are recovered.”
“Oh, I shall be ready. Do you think I must stay in the cellar for all of that time?”
“Perhaps not. But we must be careful.”
“Of course. But the Germans seemed to have made a thorough search of the house. You said they would not come back.”
De Vitrac paused before answering, as though he was weighing his words. “Not immediately, but I have a feeling that they will come back in a few days, perhaps, for me.”
Gladwin heard Marie’s sharp intake of breath. “Why for you?” he asked.
“Eh bien…” The Frenchman frowned and put down his spoon. “They suspect me of being one of les Maquisades – the resistance groups who carry out sabotage, you know? – and they will be furious that, for all their searching, they will not have found you or your comrade. They will be frustrated and they will pull me in, I suspect, for a little… ‘working over’ is the American phrase for it, I believe… by the Gestapo. I also aggravated them this afternoon, which was stupid of me.”
“How did you do that?
“Despite all our precautions, their visit this afternoon took us by surprise. My, ah, informant led me to believe that the visit would be later. Marie, Andre, Josephine and I were all in the house, so it was only the barking of Bertie outside which alerted us at the last moment. I had time to warn you but could not put back the table over the hatch before they came in. Immediately, they suspected something and rushed to look at the floor under the table. That is how they found the opening.”
He sipped his soup. “As they went down the steps, of course I thought that they would find you immediately and that everything then was lost.” He smiled. “So I was a little rude. In the excitement of finding the cellar and calling for a candle, they did not hit me then and there. But they will remember that and when they realise their searching has been unsuccessful they will be back for me. It is inevitable.”
The table was silent. Gladwin looked at Marie but her head was down and she was staring at her empty soup plate guiltily, as though she was the cause of all this trouble. “I am sorry,” said Gladwin. “Truly I am. I would not have been the cause of this for all the world.”
The Frenchman smiled. “Oh come now,” he said. “We are all being too glum. They may not lay a finger on me and, if they do, I do not think it will be bad. Just a little beating to warn me, that’s all, and what is that between friends… eh?” De Vitrac lifted his arms in supplication to them both and they, in turn, were forced to smile. “Good,” he said. “Now, Marie, please do see if Josephine has the duck ready for us.”
The young woman rose and, with a quick, haunted look at Gladwin, glided away to the kitchen. Gladwin took the opportunity to study de Vitrac, who was clearing away the soup plates. The imperturbability of the Frenchman intrigued him. From where did he get this courage and quiet confidence? Breeding, perhaps. Certainly now, as he piled the three soup bowls and then precisely placed each spoon within itself on the top bowl, he seemed quite unperturbed and, in the candlelight, he cut a handsome figure in his working breeches and clean white shirt produced, of course, in his guest’s honour. There were marks of strain at the corner of his eyes but, then, he had been up half the night.
“Ah!” De Vitrac threw up his arms in an histrionic gesture. “What am I doing? I promised you good wine and I have forgotten it. Please excuse me for a moment while I go below to your domaine.” He left the room as Marie re-entered.
“He is a remarkable man, your husband,” said Gladwin. “You must love him very much.” He regretted the words as soon as they were uttered because Marie’s face flushed and she quickly looked at the floor, in that familiar gesture. She did not reply but rearranged the utensils around her plate. Eventually she looked up and regarded him with those sad eyes.
“Yes,” she said. “I think he is very brave. He never thinks of himself. He is… I cannot think of a better word in English… he is honourable. He always does what he thinks is right, even when that is difficult.”
The two were sitting in uneasy silence when the Frenchman returned to the room brandishing a bottle. “It is a 1933 Medoc,” he said, pulling away the cork seal. “Not ideal for duck. A Burgundy would have been better but there is none left, so we must put it up with – no, put up with it – as best we can. Now, let us see how it has survived the German occupation.”
He inserted an ancient corkscrew and, with an “ooh, la la!” withdrew the cork. He held it to his nose. “It will do,” he said, pouring a little into Marie’s glass and then filling Gladwin’s and his own. He held up his glass, so that the candlelight reflected from it. “A toast,” he said. “To victory.”
“To victory,” the others repeated.
Gladwin felt a familiar feeling of discomfort as he lowered his glass. Excessive displays of patriotism always had this effect on him. Although he was Welsh, he was English in his dislike of demonstrations of emotion in public and, indeed, there was never any dislike of the Germans expressed in the squadron mess. It was just not done. Yet how real de Vitrac’s words sounded in this room, where, only a few hours before, German jackboots had entered without invitation. He realised, as he could never have done in England, that there was no place for aeronautical First World War gallantry in occupied France. Studying the Frenchman as he sipped his wine, he also realised that de Vitrac was being uncharacteristically vociferous, even garrulous. This was to divert Marie’s thoughts away from the dangers that faced them all, of course. That is what this man – this honourable man – would do. In that case, he would help him.
“Tell me, Henri,” he said, “have your people always farmed around here?”
“Oh yes. For many years, in fact, many centuries. You may not think so, looking now at this poor farmer, but my family used to be quite important in the old days – and I speak now of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. We were titled landowners in this part of France and our domaine extended far south of here.”
“The time of the Hundred Years’ War?”
“Yes, indeed. I believe we fought the English when you were making your disreputable chevauchées up from the south.”
“Ah, you mean the Black Prince and Henry V and all that.”
“Oui. They were little more than pirates on land, you know.”
“Well, with respect, it was a little more complicated than that, I believe. It could be argued, indeed, I think it is now commonly accepted by historians in Britain, that the whole bloody and stupid business was actually triggered by your Philip VI when he moved his fleet, ostensibly assembled for a crusade, from Marseilles into the English Channel and then annexed Gascony, right next door to our possessions in Aquitaine. As a result, our Edward III laid claim to the French throne, Philip raided Portsmouth, Southampton, Dover and Folkestone and we were off – drums beating and banners flying on both sides. Stupid. But then people were immature in those days… still are.”
Marie was staring across the table at him, her eyes round. “How do you know all this, Will?” she asked.
“Oh, I was a history master and taught the period.” Gladwin stirred uncomfortably. “But I didn’t mean to be… er… adversarial. The more I read history at university the more I rea
lised that there are no such things as unchallengeable facts in the past, only interpretations. Mind you, on reflection, I think that you are quite right, Henri, about our raids at that time. We did behave like pirates in your country, looting and burning.”
“Oh you did, you did.” Marie was nodding, anger in her eyes. De Vitrac murmured quickly to her in French and she flushed. “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to be rude.”
Gladwin leaned across to touch her hand across the narrow table, then thought better of it. “No you were not. Please don’t apologise. They were barbaric times.”
De Vitrac nodded. “Yes, my friend, they were. So many villages put to the torch, so many towns besieged and even when the people surrendered they were butchered. Large areas of our countryside were laid to waste, you know. Crops were burned and people starved, particularly the peasants.” He paused, as though the horror was too vivid to describe, then continued in a softer tone. “But enough of this history, this sadness from the past. Now we are allies. It is strange, eh?”
Gladwin nodded, not knowing quite what to say, and they all sipped their wine. Then de Vitrac leaned forward, as though finding courage from the wine. “You know, the Boche are terrible, of course, because it is the third time in less than a century that they have invaded France and I and my family have fought them. But we face even worse enemies.” He spoke quietly and slowly but with conviction.
“Good lord.” Gladwin’s reaction was genuine. “What – a greater threat than the Nazis?”
“Oh yes. The Germans are aggressive and cruel. But, their ways are rational and are based at least on respect for order and the maintenance of a nation’s traditional hierarchy. Do you know, my friend,” de Vitrac leaned back in his chair and gestured with his bread, “that the Communists have been gaining ground in this country for years, even before the war. The so-called Popular Front was a great threat. If the war had not occurred we would now be facing civic disorder of a desperate kind… and it may still happen.”
Gladwin frowned. “How?”
“I said earlier that the Germans think that I am a member of the Maquis. Well, I am not. Oh, of course, I would like the Germans to lose the war and leave our country and les Maquisards are all working towards that end. But there are many types of resistance fighters operating throughout France, in the cities and out in the country. For instance, there are the Gaullists, supporting this junior tank general operating from your country. But most of the Maquis are Communists who plan to take control of France when the war is over.”
De Vitrac was now speaking more quickly and a vein in his forehead stood out prominently as he continued. “They are blowing up bridges and railway lines to get rid of the Germans, oh yes, but also to destabilise our country so that they can launch their revolution. They are Communists, Gladwin, who would make France – proud but humbled France – a subject state of Soviet Russia. Pah! I will not help them. They will destroy everything, everything, I say.”
A silence fell on the table and Gladwin drew in his breath. He had always regarded the Resistance movement in France as a united, if still rather ineffectual, bonding of patriots working with a common aim. This was all new to him. He stole a quick glance at Marie. She was looking at her husband with wide eyes. She must have heard all this before, or was it all a revelation to her, too? The Welshman could not be sure. But de Vitrac was speaking again, this time in more conciliatory tones and with a half smile on his face.
“All of this, my friend, does not mean that we do not wish to help you and your colleagues who descend upon us, so to speak, from the sky. I feel that we can help to keep our self respect and continue to oppose our occupiers by helping you to return home.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes, in fact, we have to work with the Communists to do this. But we try not to do so, if we can help it.”
He sighed. “Enough of all this political talk. Let us change the subject. While we are waiting for our duck, which seems to have taken one last flight, I will tell you what we hope to do with you and your comrade, when you can walk and we are ready.”
Relieved that the topic had been changed, Gladwin said, “Thank you, please do.”
The Frenchman stood, walked to a cupboard and produced a map. He brought it back to the table and, opening it, placed his forefinger on the top left side of the map of France. “We are here,” he said, “near the coast of the Channel but, as you know, we cannot go that way, although it is the nearest point to England.” He moved his finger along the coast to the South West. “Here, in Brittany, the British have made occasional rescues across the water, using fast motor gun boats. But it is very risky. No, we must go all the way down here,” he drew his finger down the map, due south, “perhaps through Rouen, Orleons, Poitiers.” He looked up and smiled. “In the footsteps, in fact, of your Black Prince in his chevauchée of 1353, or whenever…”
“1356,” corrected Gladwin.
“Quite so. Anyway, in his footsteps, down past Bordeaux, from where your Prince began his piracy and probably to here, in the Bayonne area at St Jean de Luz from which, with any luck, you can cross the Pyrenees into Spain and safety. Or it may be necessary for you to go to Paris first, to join the line there.”
Gladwin looked up from the map with a smile. “You make it sound like a stroll.”
“No.” The Frenchman shook his head. “It will be difficult and dangerous. The line was first set up in 1941 by a young Belgian girl and her father but,” he shrugged his shoulders, “they were eventually arrested and put into concentration camps. It was almost inevitable. But, somehow, the line continues. The system is that a chain of couriers take you from one link of the chain to the next, so that you are handed on, so to speak. The points in the chain are called safe houses. But,” and he frowned, “there are really no such things as safe houses. They have to be changed all the time. People – ordinary people, old women and girls – are being arrested, interrogated and killed all the time.”
He paused for a moment and raised an eyebrow at Marie. “Le canard, ma chère,” he murmured. “Le canard?”
The young woman frowned and hurried away again to the kitchen.
Gladwin watched her go and then asked, “How do we travel?”
“I do not know the details yet, but you will usually be accompanied and you will do most of the journey by train. Gasoline is strictly rationed here. You will have false papers and pretend to be foreign workmen, Czechs or Poles, being transferred to the south to work there. I presume that neither of you will speak French?”
Gladwin shook his head. “Not very well.”
“A pity, but it is usual. So you must not open your mouth in public. Your courier will help if you are stopped. If you must speak, do so in fluent Czech or Polish to the soldier or policemen and show them your papers.” His elegant moustache curled as he smiled. “It may just work.”
At this point, Marie re-entered followed by a flustered Josephine bearing a steaming roast duck on a large dish. Gladwin’s taste buds leaped in anticipation as de Vitrac set about quartering the bird with swift, competent strokes of his knife. He served and they all began eating. Not since peace time had Gladwin tasted a meal so flavourful. To him it seemed positively ambrosial, as far removed from the wartime stodge served on the station as caviar was to battered cod.
De Vitrac noted Gladwin’s appreciation and nodded. “It is good, yes? This is one of the advantages of living on the farm, though we do not usually eat as well. The Germans will visit us unexpectedly and take whatever we have, so we try and hide some animals, as best we can.” He gestured to his plate. “This little bird was under the bridge on our little stream. Killed only this afternoon, because we felt we should celebrate tonight.”
And so the meal continued, with a little polite conversation interspersed between the mouthfuls. Gladwin smiled inwardly again at this strange gavotte he was dancing, far from base, deep in enemy country, eating like a king and exchanging decorous compliments with his host and hostess. The word surreal kept
springing back into his mind. It was noticeable that Marie spoke little and, always, was deferential to her husband. Now, she hardly looked at Gladwin and this disturbed him. Had his pompous airing of historical knowledge caused offence? He resolved to choose his words – and his subjects – with great care in future.
The meal ended with good cheese, the awful coffee and de Vitrac apologising for the absence of cognac. “The war again,” he shrugged.
Gladwin descended to his hideaway feeling magnificently replete, if a little discomforted at this awkward relationship that was forming with his hosts. Nevertheless, as he blew out his candle, it was a delicious vision of a round, anxious face and tip-tilted nose that danced before him as he surrendered to the comforting blackness. He was asleep within seconds.
*
A shaft of light seeping through his barrel barricade woke him the next morning as Marie slipped through his narrow entrance and set down hot water and a soap and towel. “I will bring your breakfast in ten minutes,” she said, avoiding his glance.
Gladwin made his toilet, using now his emergency RAF razor to shave, and was waiting at the bottom of the steps to relieve Marie of his tray when she returned. She gave him a timorous half-smile as she handed it to him and then was gone up the steps, like thistledown floating on soft summer air. Shaking his head, Gladwin sat down and ate his black bread and jam. The light bulb had been restored and the starkness of the cellar was fully revealed to him. God! How long must he stay here? The walls were no longer comforting but seemed to have contracted since yesterday and were now dungeon-like. He sighed. Obviously, after the excesses of last night’s hospitality he was to stay on short commons, presumably like the others, while the Germans were prowling. In that case, he would try and exercise as much as possible and make his mind work, too.
When his luncheon was brought at noon – this time by Josephine, making her way laboriously down the steps – he was able to communicate the need for an English-French dictionary and after she had returned with a well-thumbed copy, he spent the rest of the day memorising key words that could be useful on that long journey south. He also managed to lie on the stone and complete thirty sit-ups without producing a twinge from his ankle. That day it was Josephine who changed his dressing and his heart fell as he fantasised de Vitrac in confrontation with Marie, forbidding her to visit the cellar again. Nor did the young woman come on his third day, as he hopped and skipped around the stone floor, occasionally gingerly testing his injured ankle by pressing the ball of his foot against the stones.