Silence Over Dunkerque

by John R. Tunis

  Outside could be heard the tramp of boots and harsh, guttural commands. Glancing from the window, the Sergeant saw a patrol tromp past, the men calling to the dogs in the front yard.

  Going into a small passageway at the rear, the veterinary stepped on a chair, and after considerable pushing, lifted a trap door. Quite obviously the place had been unused for years.

  “Montez. Vite.” Get up. Quick.

  This was no easy task, especially from the chair, as it almost meant chinning oneself. The Sergeant pushed Fingers up, and Fingers pulled on the Sergeant, though it took all the strength they had to make it. The old man below put his finger to his lips and, standing on the chair, slammed the trap door into place.

  From below came the sharp, protesting bark of the dog. Having found her people, she did not intend to be separated again. They could hear the old doctor and the girl trying to drag her downstairs. Her paws scuffed the floor, her whining and groaning were audible in the dark attic.

  “Well, one thing certain. She’s got plenty of pals here. Wish we had,” said Fingers.

  “We have, lad, just remember that. These people are risking their lives to take us in now. We may be allies and all that, but we’re strangers. Would we do as much for a couple of Frenchies if the Germans occupied England? I wonder. Anyway, the dog’s all right. She won’t run away.”

  “I only wish we could,” said Fingers.

  CHAPTER 22

  THEY HAD BEEN three days in the house of the veterinary now, and thanks to the girl and the old man, it almost began to seem like home. That morning she sat on the arm of the Sergeant’s chair, in the big sun-streaked kitchen with the red-tiled floor, exactly as Penny often did in their kitchen at home. She began to question him about his life and his family.

  “Tell me more about your children.”

  “I did. There are three. Two boys, fifteen....” He was unable to recall the French word for twins. “Two boys just the same age. The same age, you understand?”

  “Ah!” she threw back her head, and as she did so the gap between her teeth was exposed. “Ah, jumeaux.”

  “That’s it, twins. And a girl.” He found such understanding with Gisèle that he had no difficulty speaking French, and was also able to understand everything she said.

  “She has what age?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen! Like me. What does she call herself?”

  “Penelope. Pen... el... ope. Penny.”

  “Ah, I see. Penni.” She thought a moment. “A Girl Scout?”

  He nodded. “A Girl Scout, just like you.”

  Penelope in her Scout uniform, coming skipping up the Folkestone Road, appeared before him. Fourteen years old, same age, same costume. Yet years separated them. This child was vastly older than his daughter; she was, as she said, a Frenchwoman. And such she considered herself.

  Her story, as she told it, was the story of thousands of French girls. Growing up under the threat of war, she accepted it as people in the tropics accept hurricanes, hoping it will never strike and not being surprised when it does. So Gisèle faced up to the fact of war, lived with it, watched the clouds gather year by year, saw the storm burst. Her father and brothers, along with every male in France, left to join the armed forces. Only the women and children remained.

  Then, after eight months of inactivity along the front, came the invasion. For an English girl like Penelope it was across the water, over there, on the Continent. But for Gisèle it was in her homeland. It was nearby, getting closer each day; in the next département, the next city, the next village. Until one afternoon it submerged Coulogne and the Calais region.

  Gisèle and her mother had been living with her grandfather, as it was safer than their lonely home by the sea. But war came to Coulogne. From the wood behind the house, German 155’s tossed shells day and night onto the French and English garrison in the old citadel of Calais. Overhead swept the Nazi planes, dropping their burden of destruction and devastation on the city. When Calais surrendered, Gisèle and her mother returned to the farm on the cliff, where at least there were a few things to eat. Finally, after the fall of Dunkerque, the two Britishers had come, so with them Gisèle had returned to her grandfather in Coulogne for help.

  Obviously it was only a question of time before some German patrol searching the village would discover them. Lots of British troops were hiding in stables, barns, or in the thick woods behind the house. The enemy knew this perfectly well. Proclamations in French, posted on walls all over town, declared that any British soldier must be turned over to the Kommandatur, or householders hiding them would be shot.

  They knew this, she must have known it, but she never mentioned it. She was mistress of the situation as she was the mistress of the house, and competent in both roles. One morning, when standing in line for their ration of potatoes for the soup, she learned that two neighbors, fishermen, had been killed in the bombardment. The old man went to work. First, he persuaded their families to give him their identity cards. Then he had a friend who was a photographer come to the house and take pictures of the Englishmen. With care he scraped the old photos off the identity cards and pasted on those of the two Britishers. The local postmistress, whom he knew and trusted, stamped them all over until they seemed authentic. With the dates altered, they fitted the soldiers perfectly.

  Consequently, with the identity cards in their pockets, they spent the day in the kitchen, feeling that, should the house be inspected, it was far better to be sitting there quietly than be found hiding in the attic. Many homes in the village had been searched. Theirs had not, although German patrols tromped the Calais road day and night.

  It was hot that July noon as Gisèle placed the soup tureen on the table. Although there was little to eat, each one had a large red-and-white checkered linen napkin that matched the tablecloth. It made the two strangers feel like honored guests, rather than escaping prisoners of war. They sat down, dipping their bread crusts in the soup as the others did. Except for an end of hard cheese, this made up their noonday meal. Flies buzzed around continuously. The French seemed never to object to flies with their food.

  After a while, Gisèle rose to refill the tureen from the pot on the stove. She was hostess, she ran the house and helped the old veterinary with his sick dogs, leaving to him only the task of arranging the papers for the two Englishmen. She came toward the table with the bowl of steaming soup, stepping with care around the outstretched paws of the Airedale.

  Suddenly a figure passed by the open window. Then came two sharp, insistent knocks on the door, and soon two more impatient ones. Gisèle put the soup down and opened the door. There stood Madame Bonnet in her faded Sunday black; grim, angry, determined to rescue her daughter. Hot and annoyed, she flounced into the room.

  For... mee... dable! For... mee... dable!” she shrieked, looking hard at the Englishmen. Then came the words, Niagaras of words, avalanches of words. As always in a crisis, the Sergeant lost most of it, but the meaning was clear. Meanwhile, the girl stood silently with her hands on her hips, saying nothing. Her silence bothered Madame Bonnet even more. Stepping closer, she towered over the child.

  “For... mee... dable!” she shrieked. Then without warning, she smacked her smartly across both cheeks.

  Alarmed at the noise, the dog jumped quickly backward. The Sergeant half rose. He had never seen such things before. In the Williams family there had been reproofs and regret, scoldings and tears, and even spankings. But never a violent, unexpected smack on the face by an older person losing his temper with a child.

  Instantly the old man rose, pushing back his chair. His red-checkered napkin fell to the floor. His bearing had dignity and firmness; his tone was assured as he stepped between mother and daughter, sheltering the girl at his side. It was, thought the Sergeant, an act of considerable courage to tackle the fiery Madame Bonnet at the moment. The veterinary did not respond to her shouting; he simply stood his ground, protecting the girl from her screaming parent.


  “Come home,” said Madame. “Come home instantly. Leave this old imbecile with his foreigners. England... ah....” and she turned her spleen upon the Sergeant and Fingers, sitting open-mouthed and speechless at the table.

  “Thou had better sit down, Yvonne. The soup is getting cold,” said the veterinary.

  She paid no attention. Instead her tirade continued.

  “Toujours les poitrines françaises,” she shouted. And her husband in a German Stalag! And one son missing two weeks, and the other the good God only knows where! Hein? She seemed to hold the startled Britishers responsible for her troubles, beginning with the downfall of France. Always she kept up that refrain. “For... mee... dable.”

  “And now, now one must risk one’s life and the life of one’s remaining child to save the British who deserted at Dunkerque, leaving the French to cover them and be taken prisoners into Germany—the British who fled in the boats while the French held the lines so they could escape. Ah, no, truly, that is too much. Zut alors!” She screamed out the most unpleasant term she could remember.

  The grandfather attempted to reason with his daughter-in-law, but she easily shouted him down. In fact, the Sergeant wondered whether, towering over the old man, she might not smack him as she had the girl, who stood slightly to the rear, rubbing her smarting cheeks. Madame then leaned forward and spat into the face of the veterinary. She spoke slowly to give weight to her words. They were ominous.

  “Either,” she said, clearly enough for the Sergeant to have no illusions as to her meaning, “either she comes home with me now, or I shall report this old fool to the Kommandateur as sheltering British troops.”

  Nobody spoke. Everyone knew that in her rage and fury she was quite capable of betraying the two soldiers, her father-in-law, and her own daughter. The Sergeant decided it was time to act. He rose. There was one way to settle things, for them both to leave now.

  Then someone pulled him back onto his chair. Her hand on the shoulder of the Sergeant, the girl spoke with quiet firmness. Her voice was the voice of a strong woman.

  “Je suis une Scoot. Je reste.” I am staying.

  “Bien!” snapped Madame, scowling. She was almost choking with rage. “Sale type,” she shrieked, animosity all over her face. “Very good. The first German I see... I repeat... the first German... I shall report this ancient one. Attends!” Just wait.

  Here a figure went past the open window, and a knock sounded upon the door. Far from threatening, it was a gentle, almost appealing knock. Whoever it was had obviously heard Madame’s tirade.

  The sound came again. Nobody moved.

  “Ouvrez” commanded the veterinary. Gisèle turned, walked defiantly past her mother, and opened the door. A German soldier stood there with a small trembling dog in his arms. He was young, tall, thin, bespectacled, with a timid air, as if uncertain what his reception might be.

  Fingers half rose, but the Sergeant, with a hand on one knee, restrained him. Here we go, he thought, now we’re in for it. Two of us ought to be able to handle this lad. But who’s to handle Madame Bonnet, a far more formidable opponent? There they were, the girl at the door, Madame Bonnet breathing heavily, her face flushed, the old man with his funny wispy beard, and the two Britishers.

  Before anyone could speak, the German, noting they were at dinner, removed his cap. “Bitte, bitte, mein Hund... sein Bein ist gebrocken.”

  For a second or two it was hard to say who was the more uncomfortable, the group about the table or the young soldier with the dog. Gisèle solved it quickly by stepping forward and taking the little animal in her arms. It was a black-and-brown dachshund, a trembling, frightened beast.

  “Ah, le toto... le pauvre... il est mignon, tout de même, le petit. N’est-ce pas, Maman?” And she extended the dog toward Madame Bonnet, who sniffed but kept silent. Then turning to the young soldier by the door, she pushed a chair at him. “Entrez, entrez,” she invited him.

  The Sergeant sat ready to leap, expecting the word, anglais, any moment from Madame Bonnet. She remained immobile as the young German, on the edge of his chair, fumbled with his army cap. He was so young, the Sergeant noticed, that there was down on his cheek. He seemed hardly older than Gisèle, and at the moment was vastly less relaxed. Following the girl’s lead, he poured a glass of the red wine and handed it to this youth, this veteran of an invasion who had not yet begun to shave.

  “Bitte,” he said, raising his glass. The Sergeant found he had trouble looking him in the eye, but nevertheless raised his glass and kicked Fingers under the table, who immediately did the same. Madame Bonnet simply stood glowering at them all, friend and foe. The Sergeant felt that, should she denounce them to this uncertain youth, he would simply smile and do nothing. There are, reflected the Sergeant, all kinds in every army.

  They sat endlessly sipping their wine under Madame’s disapproving gaze, while, in the office adjoining, Gisèle and her grandfather worked over the dog. From the kitchen they could hear the animal whimpering now and then with pain and, from time to time, the low voice of the girl, encouraging and consoling. To her, all dogs, French and German, were dogs and needed help.

  There sat the enemy, watching this local family with two sailors at their noonday meal, while above towered Madame Bonnet. Finally, in a choked tone, she remarked, “There are so many lost dogs... beaucoup de chiens....” She realized he did not understand, so she said, “Viele Hunde verloren.”

  The young man beamed and nodded vigorously. “Ja... ja... viele Hunde.” Then he followed this with a torrent of German completely meaningless to those about the table.

  “Ouai... ouai,” said the Sergeant, trying to imitate the local accent.

  Suddenly the soldier rose. Gisèle was returning with the dog in her arms, the old man behind her. The animal had his right front paw done up in a splint and covered by a dubious bandage. He was suffering, yet as she gave him tenderly to the German, he wagged his tail ever so feebly.

  The veterinary stepped forward and handed him an envelope. In bad German, he said, “Für Schmertz. Ein, jeder Uhr.” He spoke deliberately. “Verstehen Sie? Ein, jeder Uhr.”

  The German held the dog cradled in one arm and nodded. “Ja, ja wohl, ja wohl, Herr Doktor.” With his free hand he fumbled in the pocket of his tunic for his purse. It appeared, every soldier’s wallet, with the photograph of a blond Fraulein on top.

  But the old man held up his hands and shook his head. The soldier tried hard to insist, to give over a ten-mark note, but the veterinary refused. So, turning toward the table, he clicked his heels, bowed from the waist in a stiff German manner, and moved toward the door, which Gisèle was holding open.

  “Danke, meinen Herren, danke vielmals, danke schön.”

  He bowed once more, stiffly, to Madame this time, and stumbled outside. Gisèle closed the door and stood leaning against it. She was trembling. Her face was white. Fingers gulped some wine and half choked on a piece of bread. Even Madame Bonnet wiped perspiration from her forehead.

  As the German soldier, the dog in his arms, passed the open window, the Airedale, who had been watching the proceedings with gravity, gave a sharp, loud bark.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE THREE WALKED TOGETHER down the Calais Road. Passers-by merely saw two local fishermen in sabots and smocks, a common sight in that seaport, with a solemn-faced young girl in a khaki skirt, a blouse with a khaki handkerchief around her neck, holding each man by one hand.

  She held their hands tightly. As she walked between them, they seemed to be protecting her. Actually, the Sergeant realized, he felt like the child, and this child at his elbow was a woman. She was protecting them, precisely as she cared daily for the stray dogs surrounding the home of her grandfather. But for her strength and courage, they would now be prisoners of war along with thousands of other Britishers and goodness knows how many French troops. If ever they reached England, it would be thanks to the shelter given them by the old man, but most of all because of the strength and resourcefulness of a f
ourteen-year-old Girl Scout named Gisèle Bonnet. France, he felt sure, was full of them.

  Beside them that morning was a well-groomed Airedale, her tail pert and cocky. The old vet had carefully combed and plucked her, then the Sergeant had given her a bath in a large wooden tub in the stable. Now she appeared thinner, much thinner, not shaggy and unkempt any more, but sleek and trim as she trotted along proudly at their side.

  Nearing the city, the two men were amazed by the destruction. Veterans of a fierce and bloody struggle, they had seen nothing worse, even at Dunkerque. The ancient seaport was ruined, its streets full of rubble, block after block of homes and flats leveled, the surviving population searching in the ruins or wandering around homeless. The three went past a sorry group of Algerian prisoners, listlessly clearing a road for the passage of German trucks and cars, the only vehicles moving.

  Not far from the harbor, which was somehow intact in the midst of chaos, they finally reached a row of houses, with a small café in the middle, its plate-glass windows shattered. The sheet of cardboard in the front did not make the interior lighter. As they entered, a tiny bell on the door tinkled. The owner, in the dimness behind the zinc counter, was wiping some glasses with a dirty rag and talking to someone in the rear.

  “’Jour, M’sieur,” said Gisèle.

  The man behind the bar looked at her, glanced at the two men with her, grunted. She walked to the back of the dingy room where a single customer sat with a glass of beer on his table. He wore a turtleneck sweater, a blue reefer, and a pair of thick stockings in sea boots. On the table was the dark blue cap of a sailing captain. She went up and kissed him on both stubby cheeks.

  “Bon jour, mon oncle.”