Silence Over Dunkerque

by John R. Tunis

  “Eh, petite, bon jour. Et ton grandpére, il existe toujours?”

  “Ouai,” she replied. Then surveying the room with attention to make sure nobody else was around, she leaned toward her uncle, a thickset figure. “These are the gentlemen of whom I spoke to you yesterday,” she whispered.

  “Um... um...” he grunted, extending a flabby hand to each Englishman in turn. They seized his hand and quickly dropped it, then sat down. For a while the uncle sat drinking his beer, not impolite, just indifferent. The Sergeant felt he was ten years old, reporting to a new teacher in a new school. Fingers twisted in his chair, fingering his beret. Strange folks, these French.

  Obviously this was an appraisal, not an interview. Rather it was a kind of examination in which the ruddy-faced seaman appeared to be estimating them—their abilities, courage, most of all their value and importance. Perhaps, thought the Sergeant, he’s weighing us in the balance, wondering whether we are worth risking his life for. One could hardly blame him, considering the risks to be run. Yet he recalled that morning on the cliff at the farm and how Gisèle had only hesitated a second.

  The captain sipped his beer silently. The owner, arranging the few unbroken bottles on the shelves behind the bar, apparently paid no attention whatever to them. The Sergeant wondered. He knew from his winter behind the lines that more than one barman in the local pub had been in the pay of the Germans, reporting not only on the troops but what they said when drunk. So he became more and more uneasy.

  Suddenly the captain rose. He was older than he had seemed, which was probably why he had not been called up by the Navy. The hand he extended was enormous.

  “Bon. A demain, six heures.” This time each man felt firmness and vigor in his grip.

  Tomorrow at six? This much the Sergeant understood. But what did it mean—six in the morning or six at night? And where were they going, what would happen, could they trust this man, so taciturn, unlike many of his race? England was but eighteen miles away, yet for them it was as distant as Greenland. If they relied on him—but if they didn’t, what then?

  “Merci, mon oncle” said Gisèle. He leaned toward her, and again she kissed both sides of his stubbly face. Certainly there was no shortage of garlic in France, whatever else was lacking. Then returning, she nodded, walked to the door, and held it open. The little bell that had greeted them sounded once more as she did so.

  “Bon jour, M’sieur le patron,” she said, nodding to the owner behind the bar, who grunted a reply. Closing the door, she took them each by the hand and led them down the sunny street, around the shell craters and bomb holes, over the piles of rubbish and masonry, across the fallen wires. The few persons around seemed dazed by the destruction.

  “Talkative feller, ain’t he?” suggested Fingers.

  “Sh!”

  Two German officers, one with a monocle in his eye, walked toward them and glanced up quickly. What they saw were two men in wooden sabots and fishermen’s blouses, with berets on their heads. They held the hands of a young girl between them. At one side walked a perky dog. The Sergeant had to fight an impulse to turn round as they passed, to see whether the Germans were watching. It took all his control to saunter on, holding the hand of Gisèle, not hurrying or seeming to.

  Silently they walked along the Coulogne Road in the midday sun. A truck roared up from behind, and they stood to one side as the dust cloud passed. It was filled with British soldiers, standing, many clinging to each other, in the jolting, swaying vehicle. It went past, followed by a scout car with four Germans and a couple of machine guns. The whole thing took only seconds. They looked at each other quickly. Poor beggars, off to a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany.

  It wasn’t until they reached the veterinary’s and were behind closed doors that they learned they were to leave the next evening by sea. The uncle owned a small trawler, one of a fishing fleet permitted to go outside the harbor twice a week. There was a crew of three or four besides the captain. He was shipping them on as sailors. The vessels were obliged to keep within five miles of the coast, and were invariably accompanied by a German E-boat to be sure they did. The captain planned to put them off in a rowboat in the dark. From then on, it would be up to them.

  The little old man sat at the table, leaning toward the Sergeant, explaining the whole scheme in his slow, precise French. In turn the Sergeant translated to Fingers, who was a city boy and distrusted the sea.

  “Rowing across the English Channel, eh? My painted aunt, that’s risky.”

  “Seems so. Yet we can’t stay here, endangering the lives of these people. What’s the choice? Walk to Switzerland? Or down to Spain? Care to tramp to Spain, clean across France?”

  “Not me. Not in these wooden things. My feet are all blisters now.”

  The Sergeant turned to the veterinary. “Bon. Demain. Nous partons.”

  At about two they had eaten and were sitting around the kitchen table. Gisèle had given the daily meal to the dogs outside, soup with a little horse meat in it. The Airedale had eaten the scraps from the table and wanted more. Helped by Madame Bonnet, the young girl was washing the dishes, while the old man was teaching Fingers a card game called belote.

  Voices suddenly came from without. They were harsh sounds, terrifying everyone in the room. The dog, who had been stretched out with her paws across the feet of the Sergeant, rose to her haunches, feeling danger, growling softly.

  He put his hand on her back. She was quivering. “Down, girl, down,” he said gently.

  Two figures in gray uniforms passed by the open window. The door, bolted, was tried from outside, yanked at, then it shuddered under the blows of a gun butt.

  “Offnen Sie!”

  They sat motionless with fear. Once again the question arose in the mind of the Sergeant. Should he rush into the next room, leap from a side window, and chance it in the heavy forest behind the house, or sit there suffering helplessly? Fingers looked at him anxiously. Both were paralyzed by indecision. Had the Sergeant jumped, Fingers would instantly have followed; the Sergeant sat, so he sat. True, by jumping from a window they might escape; but where would that leave Gisèle? And her mother and grandfather? By sitting quietly and doing nothing, it might be possible to escape detection.

  Or so he decided.

  “Oeffnen! Schnell... Schnell....”

  It was an urgent command, curt, ugly. Only the girl seemed able to act. Her braids fluttered about her shoulders as she leaped for the door, shoved back the bolt, and flung it open.

  Two German privates with automatic pistols tramped in and took a menacing position at each side of the door. A non-commissioned officer, his helmet well over his face, followed.

  “Papiere!” The familiar word.

  “Sie sind Herr Doktor Dupont?”

  His voice was unfriendly. The group about the table reached for their identity cards, the two Britishers more slowly than the others. Now that the Sergeant had recovered his poise, he was sizing up the situation, wondering whether he could grab the pistol of the non-com.

  Another German uniform passed by the window at this minute and followed the others into the room. This was a familiar and welcome face. The young soldier who had brought the sick dachshund greeted them all, smiling.

  “Guten Abend, meine Herren.”

  Turning to the non-com, he let loose a volley of incomprehensible German, which neither the two Britishers nor the French understood. His comrade merely nodded, kept examining their identity cards held toward him. Fortunately he had taken Madame Bonnet’s first, next that of the veterinary, and now he reached across for the Sergeant’s, thumbed and worn like the others. Then he glanced casually at Fingers’, who held his extended and open.

  The soldier whose dog had been sick was shaking hands with the old man, exclaiming, “Mein Hund ist viel besser geworden... ja, ja.”

  The German non-com, evidently anxious to check the houses left in Coulogne and get back to the cafés in town, was in a hurry. He gave a guttural command. The men at t
he door turned and went out. He waved to the other soldier and left too.

  “Et merci, Herr Doktor, merci,” said the blond boy. He leaned and patted the Airedale, who, at this sign of friendliness, immediately responded by raising her left paw in greeting. Enchanted at such a recognition, he took her paw, pleased she remembered him. Then turning, he bowed and went out.

  There was a long moment of silence over the room as his bespectacled face went past the window. Finally Madame Bonnet ejaculated, “For... mee... dable....”

  CHAPTER 24

  DESPITE THEIR AGES, now it was Gisèle who took charge. Madame Bonnet had stormed, slapped, threatened, but in the end she had collapsed, said nothing to the German patrol. She knew she was beaten. Gisèle was boss. Not only did she do the cooking, with her mother helping, she gave orders to her parent who, often with a frown on her face, obeyed.

  “Passe-moi le sel. Now the parsley. Cut up the carrots.”

  Madame Bonnet, not answering, did what she was told.

  Thus it was Gisèle who went to market with a black string bag over her arm, her braids fluttering as she walked, leaving Madame at home to clean and make beds. Gisèle it was who spent the afternoon walking miles up and down the country road in the rain to find food. At a lonely farm well back from the main highway she got a scrawny chicken, next a small piece of cheese and a loaf of bread at a half-ruined épicerie, and some endives from a neighbor’s garden. The Sergeant could merely guess at what it cost, because food was impossible to obtain in such chaos and disaster.

  He was unable to sleep that night. It was good to be on the road again, to be leaving, to lift the cloud of danger from the old veterinary and the two women. Yet he felt regretful at parting from them, going on to safety, and leaving them in continual danger. However, any move was vastly better than no move, better than sitting helpless and idle under enemy eyes. This was the job of a soldier, this was his duty—to escape and reach England. But he hated to leave the family and especially the Girl Scout, who had risked her life for two strangers to whom she owed nothing.

  Over and over again as he lay in that tiny attic he asked himself the same question. “Would my family do the same? Would we risk our lives for two French soldiers trying to escape in a foreign land?”

  It was raining harder the next morning. There was a cold wind from the water, but the red-tiled kitchen, polished by the two Englishmen, was cozy with the fire burning in the stove. They had also helped the veterinary with his many sick animals, then on hands and knees had washed and scrubbed the office. It hadn’t, he declared, looked so clean for years. They believed him.

  About noon, after washing at the pump outside, they returned to the kitchen where the women were preparing what each man hoped would be his last meal in France. Both women wore black aprons. Gisèle bossed her mother, and Madame Bonnet grumbled but obeyed her with quick hands and deft fingers. The girl came over during a calm moment and sat on the arm of the Sergeant’s chair, ruffling his blond hair. He liked it.

  “You need a haircut,” she said.

  Penelope sometimes sat on the arm of his chair at home and said the same thing.

  The girl inspected him closely. “Ah, if I had some sharp scissors, I would cut it myself.... Attention, Maman, attention. The soup is boiling over.”

  For the first time the Sergeant had an insight into the amount of time and tender work that went into the preparation of a French meal. There was a lot of effort, yet both women—and especially Gisèle—seemed happy as they moved from stove to table, from table to pantry, from pantry to table again. At moments the girl even hummed a song. There was more than care and attention going into that meal. There was love mixed up with everything cooking.

  Early in the afternoon the strong winds off the Channel dissipated the storm clouds, and the July sunshine swept over the red-tiled kitchen floor. Gisèle put a blue-and-yellow tablecloth over the table, got out the napkins to match, placed a huge bunch of freshly picked sweet peas in the middle. When dinner was nearly ready, she raced upstairs, reappearing in a flowered cotton dress.

  Her best, thought the Sergeant, observing that in her frock she certainly didn’t look like a Girl Scout any more. She was a Frenchwoman.

  About three they all sat down to a thick soup of leeks and potatoes, which both the Englishmen liked. Gisèle noticed this. “Ah... you like? Yes? Good?” She rose and refilled their plates from the covered soup tureen.

  Then came the tiny chicken—small indeed for five persons—a salad, the cheese, and a bottle of Normandy cider, which the old man brought up from the cellar. Afterward he held out a crumpled box, broke the one thin cigar in two, and extended each half, a few inches long, to the two guests. Fortunately the Sergeant didn’t smoke, so the veterinary puffed on it with visible pleasure.

  At four they were still talking when Gisèle moved to the window and stood watching. Outside could be heard the tramp-tramp of German patrols along the Calais Road. From where she stood it was possible to observe the enemy coming and going. Finally she nodded to her grandfather, who brought out a small portable radio from his office closet. Working over the dials for some time, he produced merely static at first, then torrents of French, Dutch, and German broadcasts, until at last it came through. Gentle and low, with the radio turned well down and Gisèle still beside the window, the words came clearly from across the Channel.

  “Ici Londres.” It was the French transmission of the British Broadcasting Company in London with the evening news. The Sergeant realized it was France’s sole contact with reality and the outer world.

  “Ah, voilà,” said the old man in a contented voice.

  The commentator was a Frenchman speaking to the French, so rapidly that most of what he said was unintelligible to the Sergeant. But it was interesting to watch the expressions change around the table. He could catch words, phrases, sentences, enough to understand a little and see their effect upon this isolated family. Berlin was bombed by the R.A.F. They were pleased. The German Army had reached and sealed the Spanish border. They groaned. The British Navy had defeated the Italians in a sea battle off Taranto. The Australian cruiser Sydney had sunk the Italian cruiser Bartolomeo Colleoni. Expressions of joy and delight went around the table, in which even Madame Bonnet joined.

  “Ah, les macaronis,” said the old man with contempt.

  He snapped the radio off as the broadcast finished. Gisèle returned to her place at table. The old man leaned across to the Sergeant, speaking slowly and distinctly. England, he declared, would never give in; no, never. She had not surrendered to Napoleon, alors! Napoleon, like Hitler, had stood on that cliff out there and looked across at the houses of Dover, yet never reached them. No, England would not fall to Hitler; he was sure, he knew it.

  In their hearts, the two Englishmen did also.

  While they were eating, the Sergeant had been uncomfortably aware that these people had given their food, had shared their last bread, something more valuable than money. What could he do for them in return? Nothing, perhaps, except leave—for better or worse. Perhaps this gift of safety was the best present he could bestow.

  They reached the end. The toasts had been drunk in old brandy—to France, to England, to Churchill, to the Royal Navy. Next, everyone, even Madame Bonnet, kissed the two men on both cheeks. A month before they would have flinched at this curious custom, now they accepted it without embarrassment because of their affection and gratitude for these people who had sheltered and protected them.

  Gisèle went to a cupboard, yanked out a straw hat with an elastic, and put it on. The hat was a kind of symbol of the day’s importance, a round yellow hat with a curled-up brim and a red ribbon hanging down the back of her neck. The hat sat on the back of her head at a jaunty angle, characteristically smart and somehow defiant.

  They stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. Once the little old man with the wispy beard on his chin had seemed ridiculous. Now they knew him for what he was—strong, brave, unyielding. Courage, the Serge
ant realized, wears many uniforms.

  He turned at the gate. “Merci, Madame Bonnet. Merci beaucoup, merci. Merci, Monsieur Dupont, mille fois merci. One of these days you’ll see us again, be sure of that!”

  Even Fingers was thanking them in French. “Adieu, mes amis, adieu.” The old man stood at the gate, waving, as they went off with Gisèle down the road. He was no longer a strange, almost pathetic figure. He was a man, strong with the strength of France.

  “Adieu... et bonne chance” he shouted. A German patrol was coming up the road, their boots rasping on the pavement, but the veterinary paid no attention.

  Beside the Sergeant trotted the Airedale, obviously superior to the colleagues around the house whom she was leaving behind. She was proud to have attached herself, by the force of her character, to someone who understood and loved her. Indeed, there was no question of leaving her. She was one of them, had shared their dangers and their loneliness. Well she knew it.

  Between the two men, serious as ever, walked Gisèle in that flowered dress. Under one arm was a small bundle, wrapped in a newspaper and tied with stout string. The Sergeant knew it was food for their journey, what they both prayed was the last stage of all. This food she had scrounged from heaven knew where or how. Should he accept it and deprive them of something they needed? No, that was hardly the question. The question, rather, was how to refuse it.

  He glanced mechanically at the freshly pasted posters on the ruined walls. For the first time he realized exactly what these posters, which he had hardly read before, were telling the people of Calais.

  Avis aux Citoyens de Calais. A warning to the citizens of Calais.

  “Yesterday at dawn the citizen Henri Descailles, rue Pasteur, 4, was shot by the authorities for having concealed a British soldier in his home.”

  Underneath, again: Avis aux Citoyens de Calais.

  If the girl noticed it—and she must have, for they passed several such signs—she gave no indication. Instead she pushed on until they reached the block of houses by the port. The tiny bell of the café tinkled as they entered, the dog squeezing in at the heels of the Sergeant. Behind the zinc bar a blowzy woman was washing dirty tumblers in a pail of questionable water.